


Home is a Fire

by AlwaysLera



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint and Natasha don't really know they're in love, Clint has a kid?, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Mission Fic, Romantic Friendship, Team Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 38,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysLera/pseuds/AlwaysLera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's adult-aged daughter comes to work for the Avengers, just in time for an unintentional mission of the utmost importance to come up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Closer to Love

**Author's Note:**

> This came from my silly fluffy story [See Something Say Something](http://archiveofourown.org/works/637726/chapters/1155600) in which Darcy finds out that Clint has an adult daughter named Emily and gets her to come to Clint’s birthday dinner. I liked the idea of Emily, lots of people did, and I decided to write a serious fic that included Emily. I’m not using Darcy’s POV for this one (she just didn’t give me the access I needed) but you’ll get to meet Emily for real as she’s one of my two narrators. Stay with me through this! I’m figuring it out as I go. 
> 
> See Something, Say Something was inspired by Sarea's [The Observable Universe! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/463529)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has a proposal for Clint who still worries over his daughter's safety in proximity to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: Closer to Love by Mat Kearney

Chapter 1: Closer to Love

            Bringing Emily to dinner with the rest of the team had been both Darcy’s best idea and her worst idea. Once the fear and shock wore off (and it helped that Natasha showed up looking like she had been thrown out of a window because she had, in fact, been thrown out of a window), he had enjoyed that birthday dinner. It was the first birthday he had ever enjoyed. Usually for his birthdays, he was either busy trying not to die, or trying to keep Natasha from dying, or he was so tired from one of those first two options that he spent his birthday asleep in bed. Natasha did not do birthdays, both from an emotional standpoint and a cultural standpoint, but she usually came over with wine and consented to watch a football game with him.

            Sitting in the restaurant with Natasha on one side of him and Emily on the other side, with his _team_ , had felt like the closest thing to a family birthday that Clint had ever had in his life, and he admitted later to Natasha, quietly, and avoiding her eyes, that he got the big fuss. To his surprise, she hadn’t teased him for being sentimental. She just told him that she thought it had been a good birthday and she was glad that Emily seemed to enjoy herself. And Emily had. She had told him as he called a cab for her (after she called him overprotective for not letting her take the subway home that late at night) that she loved meeting the people he worked with and she wished they could do it more often. For better or for worse, and in front of an amused Natasha who was keeping watch for him, he had kissed her cheek, hugged her, and promised her that it would happen again.

            What he _hadn’t_ expected was for the next weekend when he and Natasha got home from Pristina that Tony suggested that they hire Emily as a PA for the team.

            “No,” said Clint flatly, stalking away from Tony.

            To his surprise, it was Natasha who stopped him at the door. Her hair was blonde now and it still caught him off guard, even if it was an old cover and he ought to be used to it by now, but her eyes were still sharp and blue. She rested her hand on his arm. She said softly, “Hear him out.”

            “Stark. You want me to hear _Stark_ out,” he repeated to her, raising his eyebrows.

            The corners of her lips twitched. “Yes.”

            Clint sighed and turned around. “What, Stark?”

            “Look, Darcy’s busy in the lab,” Tony began to point out except at that moment, Darcy rollerskated through the kitchen, grabbed a box of cereal as she coasted by, and swiveled to wave as she reached the door at the other side of the room. The automatic doors slid open for her and she disappeared behind the foggy glass. Tony opened and closed his mouth a few times.

            “Right.” Clint turned back to leave. He desperately needed a shower.

            “No, hold up, Barton. I respect that you and Romanov, who appears to be taking on a surrogate mother role for your kid which is simultaneously the most frightening and adorable thing I’ve ever seen in my life, have decided that keeping Emily’s relationship to you a secret is critical to her safety. But just because she’s working for us doesn’t mean that you have to reveal that relationship to the world. Given that the Avengers is kind of a Thing, if you know what I mean, Steve and I need help keeping track of our press appearances, drafting press releases when we do something stupid like break a building, and keeping track of all of your cover identities and flights and acquisitions requests is more than enough for a single person. Jane and Bruce both complained to me that once Erik comes back from that conference in Europe, they’re going to need Darcy doing something more than mission management for us and I see the point. Darcy’s Jane’s, not ours. Who better understands the need for secrecy and organization than your _daughter_ , Barton?”

            It was the longest speech that Clint had ever heard Tony give to him in particular. Usually he and Tony bantered back and forth, typically in relation to Natasha, and it was rapid fire. Tony never _proposed ideas_ to him before like he did to Banner, Steve, and Natasha. Clint assumed that it was simultaneously the part where Tony preferred to talk to Natasha (because: boobs) and because Tony didn’t trust him from the events of the previous May when Loki used him as his own personal weapon thanks to a mind controlling scepter. It didn’t bother Clint much that Tony didn’t trust him. There was a lot about Tony that rubbed him the wrong way.

            But he couldn’t help but see Tony’s point. The team did need a personal assistant to help them out with everything that Darcy was juggling. The idea of doing background checks on everyone and interviews and finding someone who could put up with Tony’s ego, Banner’s ‘anger management issues’, Steve’s reticence, Darcy’s spunkiness, Jane’s forays into Scientistheadspace, Thor’s otherworldliness, Clint’s aloofness, and Natasha’s death glares was truly a monumental task. Pepper had helped a bit but she was running a Fortune 100 company and Darcy was supposed to be there for Jane, Erik, and Bruce alone.

            Clint looked at Natasha who watched him thoughtfully. “What are your thoughts?”

            “As long as it doesn’t interfere with her schoolwork,” Natasha replied with a tiny shrug.

            Tony pointed at her. “I think it’s creepy how much you sound like a mother.”

            Natasha stared at him. “I’ve known Emily for ten years. Of course I have maternal inclinations towards her.”

            Tony popped open a can of Coke. “So you’ll talk to her, Barton?”

            Clint sighed. “Yes.”

            Natasha said, “I have to go work on a project.”

            Clint looked at her, surprised. “What?”

            “A project that you’re not working on,” she replied but her eyes were relaxed so he decided not to probe any further. She poked him in the chest. “Shower, Barton. You reek like cigarettes and piss.”

            “It’s her romanticism, right?” Tony asked when Natasha left the room. “That’s why you stick around even though you’re not getting any action.”

            Clint chucked an orange from the table at Tony and was rewarded with the yelp upon impact. “I think it’s fair to say you’ve stuck your nose in my business enough today, Stark.”

            “Message received,” Tony said and began to peel the orange.

            Clint texted Emily as he took the elevator up to his floor.

 

            **Clint**  
                        Hey, still looking for a part time job?  
            **Emily**  
                        Yes! Did you hear of something?  
            **Emily**  
                        PS I sent you an email. A professor is asking us to write a paper about our family history. I don’t know anything about our family.  
            **Clint**  
                        Yes, heard of an opportunity. Best told in person. Can you come to XXX S. Broadway tomorrow night?  
            **Clint**  
                        When is it due? We can talk tomorrow night.  
            **Emily**  
                        Sure, I can come around 7? And it isn’t due for two weeks. See you tomorrow! Love you!  
            **Clint**  
                        Love you too, sweetie.

            He showered quickly and flopped on his bed, turning on the TV. He had been halfway through catching up on Elementary when they went away after his birthday and he wanted to finish watching. He didn’t really get how Sherlock solved the crimes—he liked the BBC’s Sherlock better for that reason—but something about Elementary sizzled for him. He was busy watching Sherlock bouncing around through an AA meeting and mentally solving a crime when Natasha slipped into his room, closing the door behind her.

            He glanced up. “Project got boring?”

            “If that’s your subtle way of asking me what I was doing, it isn’t going to work,” she informed him. She tossed her laptop down on his bed and crawled in beside him.

            He smiled a bit. “Worth the try.”

            “Elementary?”

            “I like it. Good chemistry between the characters.”

            “I never thought I’d say this, Barton, but you really might want to consider a show that is less violent for downtime. This can’t be healthy.”

            She was laying on his bed on her belly, her laptop by his feet. She was kicking her feet lazily while she surfed the internet. He didn’t know anyone who actually still just randomly surfed other than her. She had discovered StumbleUpon thanks to Darcy and Jane and she wasted hours on it. He caught one of her feet and was rewarded with a small girlish shriek and she kicked out, twisting and turning so she could reach back and swat at him.

            He laughed, releasing her and ducking from her strikes. “See? I don’t always make healthy decisions.”

            She snorted. “I know.”

            They were quiet for awhile and he noticed it didn’t take long for her to give up on her laptop. She shut it and leaned on it, watching Elementary right along with him. She said, “I could have told you it was the therapist husband.”

            Clint touched the back of her bare leg with his hand lightly. “You hate therapists.”

            “Like you don’t,” she responded, not even turning her head.

            The next episode made Clint want to throw up. A girl had two spies for parents but she didn’t know they were spies until the day her mother died and the girl felt incredibly betrayed. He did not realize he was shaking until Natasha straightened up, moved up beside him, wrapped her arms around him and pressed herself against him, murmuring into his ear.

            He turned into her, seeking comfort from her. He slipped his arms around her and let her body curve to fill the spaces his body created. He whispered, “I don’t want her to be hurt.”

            “I know,” she murmured back, her hand rubbing a reassuring circle on his back. “You’re a wonderful father, Clint. You’ve told her as much as was safe so far. You were never disingenuous with her. She loves you.”

            Clint gripped Natasha close. “What if someone starts following her here? What if they realize that we look alike? What if I slip up in public and am too affectionate? What if they use her to get to me, or us?”

            “It’s a risk. But it’s a risk whether or not she works here,” Natasha admitted after a long pause. He felt her sigh sink into her body. “Darcy wasn’t entirely wrong, Clint. You are in New York for eighty percent of your time now. You have the chance to include her in your life like you didn’t before.”

            She pushed back against him, pulling away a little bit. She ran her fingers through his short hair. She looked entirely serious at him. “Clint. You are a good father. You always have been. Your instincts are solid. Trust them.”

            “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he replied to diffuse the sudden tightness in his chest.

            Natasha laughed and settled her head on his shoulder, an arm across his chest. She said loudly, “JARVIS, please skip this episode and play the next.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Jarvis replied pleasantly.

            The episode switched and began playing something significantly less problematic for Clint. He watched almost absent mindedly, running his fingers up and down Natasha’s side. He wanted Emily to be close and he wouldn’t mind seeing her more than every other week when they lived in the same city. But he wanted her safe and paradoxically, the closer she was to a team of superheroes, the more endangered she became. He would be home most of the time to keep an eye on her, but when he and Natasha were away, would others take care of her? He supposed that he would have to trust them. It was hard to let someone else carry that responsibility for him, even in his mind. It had taken him two years to tell Natasha about Emily’s existence, quietly, in a bar in San Francisco, in the corner booth. She had taken his left hand, turned it over, and run her fingers down his palm and over his ring finger.

            _“Did you marry her?” she asked him, meaning Emily’s mother._

_He shook his head. “No. I didn’t love her. She was around for a couple of weeks. We were both pretty fucked up and bored and needed something to keep us around. It was like planets colliding. Hot, but destructive.”_

_“Not really,” Natasha told him in a low voice. She lifted her eyes to his. “You have a daughter.”_

_He had smiled slightly. “Yes. I do. You should meet her, Tash. You’d like her. She’s very smart and self contained.”_

_“Of course she is,” Natasha busied herself in unfolding her napkin. “She’s your daughter.”_

It was about this time that if, if he had that relationship with Natasha, he would turn, kiss the side of her mouth, her mouth, and then the show wouldn’t matter anymore, and he could rid his mind of nostalgia and worry and lose himself in one of the two people he had ever loved in the world. But she was Natasha more than she was his Natasha, and a long time ago, they had found this pattern. Patterns were reliable and steady. He had learned to love what he had.

            He turned his head, closing his eyes, inhaling the smell of her shampoo. He whispered to her, “I’m a lucky guy. Don’t think I don’t know that, Tasha.”

            Her arms tightened around him slightly. “I know.”

            They fell asleep like that, clothed, on top of the blankets, watching a detective show, her arms around him and her head on his shoulder, his arm around her side and head against hers. There were worst ways to fall asleep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elementary is a real show and if you're a fan, you know why Clint and Natasha might like it ;)
> 
> The first episode that is referenced is Elementary Season 1 Episode 1 "The Pilot" and the second episode, the one that triggers him, is Elementary, Season 1, Episode 11, "Dirty Laundry".


	2. Be Your Own Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily gets a job offer and meets her dad's "friends".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: Be Your Own Girl by the Wallflowers

** Chapter Two: ** **Be Your Own Girl**

            Emily hurried up the subway stairs, taking them two at a time, and exhaling when she reached the top of the stairs. She was a New Yorker for the last four years of her life, but that didn’t mean she actually felt comfortable beneath the ground. It was a cold rainy February day and taxis blew by, spitting cold dirty water onto the sidewalk she managed to avoid only out of instinct. She remembered her father’s instructions clearly and she walked around the block, picked up coffee, went into one apartment building, gave her name, and was allowed to exit out the back entrance, into an alley. She surreptitiously glanced up and around, scanning the rooflines and the fire exits for a sign of him before going in the back exit of the Eagle, the restaurant/bar around the corner from where he worked and where they often met for dinner. 

            “Miss Emily!” greeted one of cooks. He was busy adding spices to something but threw her a big, toothy smile. “Your friend said you would be here. He left that envelope for you.”

            She picked up the envelope on the counter. Inside was a pass card and an address with a floor number. She thanked the cook and went out the front of the restaurant, walking to the address on the pass card. The Stark Tower, which was really just the A Tower now for the Avengers, a team of so-called superheroes. Emily didn’t really pay attention to the news—she tried not to because she knew any dangerous situation in the world had the potential for taking her dad away from her—but her friends told her that Captain America was hot. She shrugged and went in, showing her ID and passing her new pass card over the reader at the elevator. She typed in the floor number and a computer system asked for her pass card again. She waved it in front of the sensor again. Doubtfully, she wondered if her father was actually going to have a good job offer for her and information about her family for the assignment. This seemed like a lot of security efforts just to meet her in private and not over dinner like they normally do.

            The door opened onto a main floor of varying levels with a wide kitchen, a huge lounge area, a brightly lit table, and a wide assortment of people who were milling around. Everything was very modern, sleek, sharp, white lines and minimalist. A middle aged man who was probably her father’s age with dark curly hair was standing at the stove cooking something. She vaguely recognized him from her father’s dinner. She remembered Tony Stark, though, and had figured that they were just friends. He was pacing behind a table, pointing at something on the table and criticizing it loudly to a slim, beautiful woman with strawberry blonde hair who was giving him an exasperated look. Emily’s father was on the couch with Natasha and she wasn’t really surprised by that. She was only surprised that they were in such a deep discussion that neither of them noticed when she came in. They were both the jumpiest people she knew.

            “Emily!” shrieked a familiar voice and Darcy, the one who had found Emily on Facebook and stalked her down to a Starbucks and invited her to her father’s birthday part, rolled—literally, on rollerskates—towards her, pulling her into the living space and hugging her tightly. “Hey! We’re glad you made it.”

            Clint rose gracefully from the couch, a warm smile on his face. He extracted Emily from Darcy’s grasp. “Hey, sweetheart.”

            “Hey, Dad,” she whispered, hugging him tightly. She looked around wide eyed. “What’s going on?”

            Clint looked uncomfortable and he gestured. “Come on in. Put down your stuff.”

            Emily carefully put down her schoolbag and took off her jacket, hanging it up on a hook by the elevator door. She looked around at the group that was studying her with the same intense curiosity that she was giving them. She knew their faces now. Almost everyone had been at the dinner but she hadn’t asked questions then because her father had told her that she could not ask questions about his friends and his job. For as long as Emily could remember, it was the number one rule of their relationship, strained as it could be at times. Curiosity was not something Emily was comfortable with. She looked at the tall blonde man in a button downed shirt tucked into khaki pants, at Tony Stark, at the blonde woman at his side, at Darcy, at a dark haired woman with glasses on her head, at Natasha who was sitting alertly on the sofa.

            She looked at her father and said quietly, “You’re part of the Avengers.”

            Clint shifted on his feet, sliding his hands into his back pocket. Emily tried to remember the last time that she had seen her father uncomfortable. He hadn’t even been uncomfortable when the first time she had gotten her period was when she was visiting him. He hadn’t been uncomfortable when he walked in on her asking Natasha questions about sex. Her father didn’t do _uncomfortable_. But here he was, looking pale and unsure.

            “Yes,” Tony Stark said loudly and he crossed over the room. “Last time we weren’t allowed to introduce ourselves because we thought Natasha might kill us, but well, things are different now and if I’m going to die, I’m going to do it while being the only gentleman in the room.”

            Emily smiled at that, her eyes dancing over to Natasha who gave her a faint smile. She knew Clint’s best friend’s reputation. She shook Tony’s hand and said, “Mr. Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you, officially.”

            “Call me Tony. My father was Mr. Stark. This pretty lady next to me is Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries and my better half,” said Tony. (“It isn’t hard,” Pepper stage whispered to Emily with a wink.) He gestured to the tall blond man in a buttondown shirt. “This is Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America.”

            Emily grinned as she shook Steve’s hands. “My roommate has the biggest crush on you.”

            Steve turned seven different shades of scarlet. “It’s really great to have you here, Emily.”

            “You know Darcy who is our resident know it all,” Tony gestured with his hand. “She technically works for Jane who is one of our scientists here though she’s not quite as smart as the genius next to her, Dr. Bruce Banner.”

            “Bruce,” said the man who was still cooking. He gave Emily a shy smile and adjusted his glasses. “If you’re trying to figure out which one I am, I get big and green.”

            “Oh,” said Emily, because she wasn’t sure how to say anything else about the Hulk.

            Tony gestured to Clint, “Your father is known as Hawkeye. Natasha is the Black Widow.”

            Emily stared at her father and then at Natasha. “You are _superheroes?_ ”

            Natasha shook her head. “Not at all. We worked for a different organization until you know, last spring. Now we’re here. We’re the only people who are just us, all the time, no matter what.”

            Clint managed to find his voice again. “Speak for yourself, Tash.” He shrugged and looked at Emily worriedly. “You understand, I wasn’t _allowed_ to tell you what I did, right? It wasn’t safe. It still isn’t safe.”

            “Wow,” Emily said softly. She shrugged. “I get it. It’s how things have always been. It’s just that…you are part of _the Avengers_ , Dad.”

            He shrugged a bit, moving back towards the modest, unassuming, everyday man that she always knew. He gestured to the couch. “Come sit? The team wants to talk to you about something.”

            “He makes it sound ominous,” Tony told her as she walked down the two short steps to the couch where she sat at the edge of the cushions next to Natasha. Clint was pacing now, by the wall of windows, looking out over the city. Emily’s eyes followed him for a moment before she tore them back to Tony.

            “We need a personal assistant who can keep our files up to date, make sure everyone’s reports are in on time, handle the PR schedule for the Captain and I, make sure that acquisition reports are actually dealt with…Darcy’s been doing a lot of that but she’s really a lab rat when she’s not on skates,” Tony explained.

            “Clint,” murmured Natasha next to Emily. Emily turned, watching Natasha watch Clint. Her voice was so low but Clint turned anyways. Natasha pat the arm of the couch. Clint moved across the room and sat, perched on the end of the couch, avoiding Natasha and Emily’s gazes. He was still unsure and worried.

            “It’s hard to find someone,” Tony returned to talking, his voice melodic even as it was abrupt, “who can put up with all of our personalities and who is by nature discrete. You understand that you would not ever be able to say on your resume that you worked for the Avengers. You would be hired under Stark Industries and you could say that you were my personal assistant, but your father, Natasha, and Bruce in particular must never come up in conversation. You cannot tell anyone what you do for us—your resume will say that you handle my public relations only—and how much access you have. It’s quite literally your father’s life we’re talking about if you were to unintentionally give anyone access.”

            “Stark,” snapped Clint, his voice hard and crisp.

            Tony raised his hands and nodded, “Okay, fair enough.”

            “It’s also a risk to you,” Natasha added quietly from Emily’s right side.

 Emily turned to watch the woman whom she had come to think of as an older sister. She was eleven when Natasha appeared once with her father. She had visited Natasha as often as she visited Clint and Natasha had been the one to quietly call her the previous May to tell her that her father had been taken captive and she was in danger. Natasha arranged for a man in a suit to pick her up and she was whisked away to a place where her father had never been and theoretically knew nothing about. She had sat there for four days, playing board games with sympathetic agents, until her father had stumbled in, looking exhausted and pale and bruised, and wrapped his arms around her, whispering apologies like a litany. 

Natasha’s eyes were calm but the tension just above her eyebrows was her only tell that she was worried. “Someone could always draw the connection between you and the team, not just you and your father, and use you. You would have to consent to taking a few self defense classes, and possibly getting a concealed carry permit.”

“I thought that was hell in New York,” Emily replied absently.

Tony snorted. “You have no idea how well connected we are. We can get you the permit.”

“You’ll be picked up every day by one of Tony’s drivers,” her father said from the edge of the couch where he was fingering the cross he wore around his neck occasionally. Emily never understood why. He was not a religious man in the least. “You can’t take the subway here. Not even Jem can know what you do, Em.”

She winced. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her boyfriend whom she had been dating for three years now. Clint had done all the background checks on him and she was pretty sure that Clint had followed them on more than one date. There had been that awkward Halloween where she had gotten home late with Jem, thinking that her grandmother would be asleep, and found that her father was quietly disassembling a gun on the living room floor and cleaning it. And not just any gun. Emily didn’t know a great deal about guns but it wasn’t a handgun. It was big and looked like it could do damage. Jem had paled but respectfully shook Clint’s hand, called him sir, and offered to sleep on the couch. Clint had asked him outright if they were using protection and when Jem nodded, still ashen, and said that he had no interest in treating her wrongly, Clint had shrugged and said that as long as they were safe, he didn’t care.

Emily said slowly, “Okay. So you’re offering me a position. But what do I get out of it?”

Steve snorted slightly from where he was quietly watching. “Definitely Hawkeye’s daughter.”

“You couldn’t tell?” asked Darcy, carefully hanging onto Steve’s arm as she stepped down the stairs in her skates. “They have the same eyes. And laugh. If you can get them to laugh.”

Emily blushed and glanced sideways at her father who was giving her an affectionate, soft look. She shrugged and said, “If I’m going to lie to my boyfriend, and accept that I’ll lie on my resume for the rest of my life, then there has to be something good.”

“Here’s the offer,” Tony said, handing her a piece of paper. When she unfolded it and stared, wide eyed, at the very generous offer at the bottom of the sheet, which included her NYU tuition covered, a travel stipend, and a living stipend, he added quietly, “We pay well because we know it won’t be easy to work for us or to work under these conditions. We might be a group of misfits but we’re aware that this is a lot to ask.”

“Plus,” added Clint, meeting her eyes now. “We get to see a lot more of each other.”

Emily exhaled slowly. “Okay. So. Wow.”

“Give the girl a chance to think about the offer,” called Jane from where she and Bruce were cooking. “Dinner’s ready. If you all keep staring at her like that she’s going to think you’re interrogating her.”

“If I wanted to interrogate her, she’d know it,” Natasha replied, but she unfolded herself from the couch and walked by Clint, squeezing his hand briefly before letting him go.

Everyone dispersed, leaving Clint and Emily sitting on the couch, watching each other with strange unsure expressions. In all of her life, even knowing her dad’s life was shrouded in secrecy, Emily had never felt unsure around him before, and he still seemed edgy and unsure to her. This was the side of him she had only known on the periphery, that he was violent and deadly and secretive and dark. It was hard to know and still be looking at the same face she had always known, the person who had taught her to ride a bike and to swim, the person who had flown back in from wherever he had gone just to see her off to her high school prom, the person who had told her that she could do whatever she wanted in the world and she only ever had to be happy.

“Okay?” he asked her finally.

She said softly, “Yeah, I guess.”

He gave her a small sad smile, his gray eyes closing off to her. “It’s a lot, isn’t it.”

“So you,” she swallowed. “You do what you used to do, but for the Avengers now.”

“I am still on SHIELD’s payroll,” he explained and shrugged. “I train for them. I only go in the field when they specifically need a sniper or Natasha needs backup.”

“How long have you done this?” she asked him, suddenly sensing she could get information she could never get from him before this moment.

He studied her face and said, “Since I was twenty two. I left before you remembered. I had you to support, and I was heading down a bad path. This gave me something productive to do with my life.”

“Killing people is productive?” she asked him and refused to hide the horror in her voice.

He didn’t even flinch. “Sometimes, yes.”

Emily looked away and her voice caught. “I always knew you had secrets and I couldn’t ask things, but…this feels big.”

“I know,” he replied softly. “I always did what I thought was necessary to keep you safe and happy. I’m not perfect, Emmy.”

She shivered at the old nickname. “Do you want me to work for you?”

“You wouldn’t work for me. You’d work for the team. And I’d like it if only because I got to see you more often,” he said after a long pause. He sighed. “And there’d be less secrets. You’d know when I was leaving the country and why I was going. Sometimes less secrets doesn’t mean less heartbreak, Emily. Knowing doesn’t always make things easier.”

Emily reached over and squeezed her father’s hand. He squeezed her hand. She whispered, “Okay.”

His eyes lit up with surprise. “You’ll take the job?”

“Yes,” Emily said, surprised by how much she did want to work for them now. She stood up and Clint slid off the edge of the couch and gestured for her to walk up to the table where the rest of the team was busy starting dinner.

“She said yes,” announced Clint, sounding bright and happy. He slid into a seat and gestured for Emily to sit next to him. He glared at everyone. “So ground rules. If anyone hazes my daughter, you answer to me. Emily, Darcy’s a poor role model. So is Natasha.”

“Hey,” protested both Natasha and Darcy. Emily laughed. Natasha gave her a small crooked smile. “Welcome to the Tower of Misfit Toys, Em.”

“Don’t worry,” Clint said, passing Emily the salad first. “I haven’t forgotten. After dinner, we’ll go over what you need to know about your family for the paper.”

Emily was Hawkeye’s daughter. She didn’t miss the look of surprise that registered on everyone’s faces overhearing that remark before they all carefully smoothed their faces. She realized that she wasn’t the only one her father had kept secrets from all these years. For the moment, though, she just listened to the banter, laughed at Tony’s ridiculous jokes, answered Darcy’s inappropriate questions about NYU student life, and watched Natasha and Clint pass significant glances over the table.

 _This could be fun_ , she thought to herself. 


	3. And Then You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finds out what Natasha's been planning. The team has dinner together. Feelings happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: And Then You by Greg Laswell

** Chapter Three: And Then You **

            Clint woke up too early with Natasha curled up next to him, on top of the sheets, fast asleep. She did not often slip into his rooms but he had long ago stopped waking up, like his mind could unconsciously filter her out of the threat category and keep himself asleep. He rolled over, draped an arm over her, and tried to will himself to catch another hour of sleep before he had to get up. The helicarrier had to go far out to sea this week so he was taking a helicopter from the Port Authority out which would take him a solid hour at least, not to mention the commute to get to the PA.

Natasha stirred in his arms and mumbled, “You have to go soon.”

He shook his head insistently against the pillow. “Do not.”

He felt her body wake up a little, a shiver of laughter running through her muscles, and her fingers curled through his. “Tell Phil I said hi and I’m sorry I couldn’t come along?”

“I can’t lie to him, you know that,” Clint chided her, still not opening his eyes. “You aren’t sorry at all.”

“Mhm,” she agreed. “I get to sleep in.”

“Evil,” he told her. “What time did you come in?”

“Eh. Two?”

He exhaled slowly. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he replied softly and let it drop. He wanted to stay there in their strange half relationship, let the light come in the window, let their phones ring to voicemail, but what he wanted and what his reality was were very different. He sighed, ran a hand up her arms and then slid out of bed. As soon as he was out from under the sheets, Natasha shimmied under them, opening just one eye to give him a small knowing smile.

“You warmed them up for me,” she explained, her voice heavy with sleep. Her eyes flickered and then closed, and her breathing steadied out again.

Clint shook his head and dressed in the dark of his room quickly. He leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to Natasha’s temple. She stirred slightly and he whispered, “Take care of my girl on her first day.”

She found his hand without opening her eyes and touched the back of it with three fingers, their universal silent signal for _all okay_. He smiled and went to work. He didn’t fly alone this time. Another SHIELD agent, Dave Kennedy, had been on leave and was meeting him at the port. Clint liked Kennedy. They had worked together in the past and he was one of the few special agents that Clint had hung out with outside of work. They liked the same music and had attended a few concerts together. Kennedy never ragged on him for his relationship with Natasha and Clint appreciated that discretion. Besides, the man could fly any flying object through basically any situation. There were few people Clint trusted to get him and Natasha safely into Afghan air space deep in the mountains under heavy fire, RPGs, and questionable weather and varying altitudes other than Kennedy.

Kennedy greeted him with a handshake and they started their pre-flight checks on the copter. Kennedy’s conversation was casual and without undertones. “Enjoying the new job?”

Clint shrugged, flicking on and off their LCD screen. “It’s alright. Gets repetitive sometimes. I feel like every incoming special agent class after us just doesn’t measure up.”

“Yeah, we had a good class didn’t we,” Kennedy said, revving up the engines. “What, you, me, Sitwell, Niall, Marks, Hernandez…”

“Pedrosa, Han, Lee, Julian,” Clint squinted, trying to remember. “It was a good class. I think only one person failed out.”

“Yeah, but Garrison’s probably my favorite intel agent now. When I want to really get into the details of something, I go to him. He gets it.”

“Can’t shoot a moving target in the dark if his life depends on it,” Clint said, like it didn’t matter what else the man could do if he couldn’t do that.

“Not all of us are hawks,” laughed Kennedy, ever good natured. “All good.”

“Yep, let’s go.” Clint slid his sunglasses down and Kennedy glided the helicopter artfully up and into the air. They got permission to cross over airspace and Clint barely got a chance to glance over his shoulder at the disappearing skyline before there was nothing but sea in either direction. He loved it. He missed flying and he missed the emptiness around him. Sometimes he felt very trapped in the city.

“How’s Romanov?” asked Kennedy conversationally.

“Russian,” replied Clint drolly, thinking that it was a better descriptor than calling her his heart murmur.

“What’s she doing in Russia next week?” asked Kennedy, flipping up the radio a bit and checking a piece of equipment. “I saw that travel request and couldn’t believe it. I thought she avoided Russia as much as possible, much less going there using vacation time.”

Clint’s mind went into static shock for a moment. He had no idea what Kennedy was talking about. He wracked his brain for any conversation, any hints she may have mentioned in the last couple of weeks. She had been quietly working on a project since Pristina that she was keeping private but he knew that she picked up freelance jobs sometimes and he didn’t pry into her business. Natasha took secrecy very seriously, and even after New York, he didn’t feel like he had the right to claim that he ought to know what she was up to. But he couldn’t think of a single time she didn’t tell him where she was going, and if she filed the report and request with SHIELD, that meant that the project was at least tangentially related to their split work with SHIELD and the Avengers. She couldn’t put a freelance job through SHIELD. Accounting would throw a fit. And Kennedy was right. With few exceptions—like when he was in New Mexico sulking and she was in Russia pushing the edges of her ability to cope with one of their knockdown dragout fights—she did not go to Russia, especially not alone. Kennedy, and probably others, thought that she did it because it held bad memories for her but it was more that it was dangerous. The Red Room had gone underground, suffering a blow when Natasha defected to SHIELD, but in the last few years, it had been growing again and Natasha had run into a few people on missions across the world where she could pinpoint who in the room was Red Room trained and in whom they had interest. It was _dangerous_ for Natasha to be in Russia, _especially_ on her own, and if she was going using vacation time…

“You didn’t know did you,” Kennedy said in the long awkward silence that had consumed the plane. He didn’t sound judgmental or surprised, just stating the facts. That was why Clint liked him so much. “Don’t tell her I told you. If the Black Widow’s ever figured into one of my fantasies, it hasn’t been one of my nightmares where I die.”

“Yeah, I won’t tell her,” Clint said after another long pause. _Natasha, what are you up to?_

So between shifts of training new special agents to hit targets bobbing in a sea on flat light, Clint did a little investigating. And by the time he caught a ride back to the mainland, he was alternating rapidly between furious and panicked. He stalked into the living room and threw a bunch of papers down on the table, shaking his jacket off his shoulders. “Where is she?”

“She did a great job,” Tony said, sounding genuinely impressed. “It was almost appalling, actually, it turns out, how behind we are in organizing reports and getting you and Natasha what you need.”

Clint frowned at him and blinked. “What?”

“Weren’t you asking about Emily? First day?” asked Tony, handing Clint a cup of coffee. “You smell like a drowned rat.”

“Spent the day in the rain,” he grumbled and accepted the coffee. He sat down at the table. “I was asking for Natasha but Em did well?”

“She’s still here. Staying for dinner,” Pepper said, coming in, dressed to the nines and looking exhausted. “I can’t believe I made it home. That weather was awful. Did you fly through that, Clint?”

Clint shrugged and watched Tony get up and kiss Pepper quickly. She had been gone at a conference in Denver for the weekend. Tony would never admit it but Clint saw the way he pined for her.

Pepper smiled at Clint. “I ran into her upstairs in the lab. She and Darcy were doing an inventory of everything. She is meticulous but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, should I?”

Clint flushed a bit. He wasn’t used to people complimenting him on his daughter, or through his daughter. He wasn’t used to people knowing that he _had_ a daughter. He said with a sigh. “I need to go argue with Natasha then before dinner.”

“That’s Hawkspeak for ‘not in front of our daughter’,” Tony explained to Pepper. “You know, that stage when parents think the kid still doesn’t know that they fight?”

“Not our kid,” Natasha said, walking into the kitchen, wearing shorts and a tank top. Clint’s eyes followed her across the kitchen and he had no doubt that she had heard his comments judging by the critical and wary eyes she cast over him. “You look like a drowned cat, Barton.”

He said, “It’s winter. You’re dressed like it’s summer.” He did not say, _Barton? Really?_

She turned her back on him, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Is that what you want to fight about? How I’m _dressed_?”

He heard the insinuations in her voice, that she had no right to tell her how to dress and how not to dress, that he was neither her mark nor her handler, and that she could dress as she wished. He didn’t disagree with any of those points. It would just be hard to argue with her when she was standing there like that, glaring at him over coffee.

He said quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Volgograd next week?”

The room stilled. Tony put down his coffee and looked at Clint, then Pepper, then Natasha. He didn’t leave either. He also wanted to know. Pepper busied herself with hanging up Clint’s wet bag and coat and standing by the door, biting her lip and looking a little worried. Natasha stood by the counter, impossibly still, like a human statue in a park, except none of them ever looked like her: red beginning to show through at the roots of her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her tank top curling at the top of her shorts, her long slim legs that could kill a man in seconds, her bare toes curling against the floor in her only outward projection that she was simultaneously uncomfortable and afraid and angry.

“It is none of your business,” she said finally, setting the coffee down on the counter carefully, like she expected him to physically confront her.

“Right,” he couldn’t keep the bitterness from his snarl. “Of course not. Why the fuck would it be any of my business?”

“I am not going on business,” she said carefully.

“I _know,_ ” he snapped and then took a deep breath, trying to quell his fear and anger. He wanted to tell her that she couldn’t go, but she was Natasha and he was Clint and they were nothing as often as they were everything. He pushed back from the table and left the room rather than say anything he would regret.

He ran into Emily in the hallway. He forced a smile on his face. “Hey, chickadee, I heard you had a great first day.”

She looked tired but happy, her eyes shining at him and a faint blush on her cheeks. “You guys were right. You desperately needed someone. Took Darcy and I a whole afternoon to go through _one_ storage room and do inventory.” She paused and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Long day,” he said with a smile still on his face. “I’m going to shower and I’ll be back down for dinner. Are you staying?”

“Yes, and then Bruce said he’d help me with some of my homework after dinner before I head back to the apartment. See you soon?” She asked him and then her eyes switched over his shoulder.

Clint glanced over his shoulder and met Natasha’s eyes as she stood in the hallway behind him. He turned back to Emily. “Yep, I’ll be down in ten.”

And he walked away from Natasha and his daughter. Behind him, he heard Emily say, “Why do you both look pissed?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Natasha’s soft murmur reached his ears.

Clint reached the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. The shower was warm, unlike the rain over the Atlantic Ocean, and he desperately wanted to stay in there forever. If Emily hadn’t stayed for dinner, he may not have left his rooms for the night. He had never had an obligation to go down and participate in team dinner before. He filed this reluctance away in his head as a reason to let Emily go in the future if it became too hard to have her mixed up in his professional life. But wasn’t Natasha mixed up in both his personal and professional life? _No_ , he told himself softly. He _wished_ she was but the reality was that it was one-sided, that Natasha was his work partner and that alone, and if she let herself into his rooms and fell asleep on his bed, it was because they were used to being alone in the field and staying warm and seeking comfort, nothing more and nothing else.

Still, he was surprised that Natasha wasn’t waiting in his room when he came out of the bathroom. He changed into clean warm clothes. He told himself that that this, like everything, for the daughter he shouldn’t have had, and he opened the door and went back down to the dinner. The entire ride, he told himself to contain his anger with Natasha and not to mention anything about next week. He would ignore if she would. She could handle herself in the field. She always could. And if she was going back to Volgograd, if she was looking to get killed, that was on her head. She had not asked him to come along and he had no intentions of suggesting he do so.

Almost everyone was back in the kitchen. Tony gave him a quick wary look and raised eyebrow. Clint nodded to him. He was okay. He was an adult capable of handling his feelings. Pepper touched his arm gently, giving him a quick, understanding smile, while he was digging in the fridge for a beer. Clint’s chest felt tight. Natasha was at the table already, listening to Emily tell her about the day, and Clint could feel her eyes on him as he moved silently through the space, taking a seat on the other side of the table, far away from her and Emily, where Steve normally sat. Steve turned around to take a seat, opened his mouth, then closed it, his eyes darting between Clint and Natasha worriedly and then he took Clint’s normal seat. No one said anything, but Natasha’s mouth was tight.

“I was looking over the surveillance photos you sent to me, Natasha,” said Steve, passing the potato salad to the left. “I’m pretty sure those have to be saran gas facilities.”

Natasha frowned as she served herself and passed the bowl onto Emily. “Except the buildings are very close together and normally you separate those. Safety.”

“Not every terrorist is smart,” Tony pointed out.

“This isn’t a terrorist. This is state sponsored chemical weapons manufacturing,” argued Bruce. “Pepper, can you pass the salt?”

Pepper passed the salt. “I don’t understand why you can’t get sensor readings on that, Tony.”

“Woman, I don’t need you to – I mean, she’s right. I could do a fly over.”

“They’re going to notice you,” Clint noted dryly.

“Could you get in?” asked Steve.

“Dangerous,” Natasha said stiffly and then paled a bit. She avoided his eyes. “You don’t know the language and the area’s incredibly unstable.”

Clint stared at her for a long moment, trying to will himself to let it go. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. He turned his head and said, “You have the specs?”

“It’s in northern Syria that’s completely lawless,” Tony said slowly. “If we’re going in there for just surveillance, then maybe we should have a team approach.”

“Steve,” Pepper said genially. “I had no idea that you were contagious because I’m pretty sure I just heard Tony suggest a team approach to something.”

Steve handed Clint a stack of photos but Darcy leaned forward, plucking them out of his hand. She leaned backwards and tossed them on the couch. She looked around the table and shrugged. “Look, if there’s going to be some sort of power struggle and debate over what’s dangerous and what’s not dangerous, wait until after dinner.”

“Thor’s in Turkey,” Jane suggested slowly. “Might be easier if Hawkeye and him connected. Thor’s more than adequate backup.”

“He’s noticeable, especially in Syria.” Clint said dryly. “Easier if I go in alone. Shouldn’t take long. Just getting an ID on what they’re manufacturing before we make the next move, right?”

“You cannot possibly be thinking about this seriously,” Natasha snapped.

Steve held up his hand and raised his eyebrows. “How long do you think it’d take you?”

“Including travel time? Six days?” asked Clint. He looked around the table. “I would need a new cover. I don’t have anything for something like this and seems like it’d be smarter to go in through commercial air.”

Natasha got up from the table and scrapped the food off her plate into a trashcan. She slammed her plate into the dishwasher hard enough that it broke. Clint watched her hands shaking as she reached for the pieces. He sighed and slid out of his chair, walking over to her.

He reached down to help her pick up the pieces of the plate and she swatted his hand away, “I don’t need your help!”

“Is that what this is about?” he asked quietly.

She straightened and there were _tears_ in her eyes. He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and she folded into him, shaking. 


	4. A Soft Place To Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily gets to see an Avenger dinner. Bruce chats with her and puts her at ease. Emily catches up with her boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: A Soft Place to Land by Kathleen Edwards

Emily had seen the look on her father’s face in the hallway and recognized immediately. He was angry and he was scared. She had seen it a hundred times before on his face after he had been gone a particularly long time, or when he was telling her that he would be going for a particularly long time. For as long as she could remember, her dad had come in and out of her life with regularity but without notice or warning. He always brought her books and candy and stories, fairytales of far away lands, when she was a kid. When she was a teenager, he’d bring her back music and books and photos, as many touristy things as he was able to manage. By that time she had been able to understand that what he did when he was abroad was not exactly sightseeing. He had come home injured more than once. In retrospect, she knew when he was chasing Natasha across the world with the intent to kill her. It was the longest he had been away from Emily in her entire memory. And it scared her, that on her first day with the team, that she see something that she connected so strongly with him disappearing and reappearing in her life, battered and beaten and broken and a little sadder each time. The sadness that had accompanied every mission had grown exponentially until she was ten or eleven years, when abruptly, he stopped looking like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. And it had begun to fade even. It took Emily years to realize that it was Natasha who took that away from him.

She knew that Natasha was Clint’s best friend, and she knew they were work partners. She had once stopped her father in the kitchen of her grandmother’s house and said, “Are you sleeping with Natasha?”

She had been fourteen when she asked him that question and he had looked at her, amused, and said, “No, Emmy, I’m not sleeping with Natasha.”

And a few years later, when she had gone into her father’s room looking for him, and found Natasha sleeping in his bed, she had asked him the question again. That time, there had been a short flash of sadness and desire that crossed his face, and it took him a beat longer to sigh, “No, Emmy, I’m not sleeping with Natasha.”

It took Emily years to realize that she had been asking the wrong question the entire time. And seeing Natasha’s face behind Clint, the open hurt and worry on it, she had known that they had fought. It wasn’t their first fight, and she knew—even if they did not—that it wasn’t their last. Still, her heart clenched a little bit to see both of their faces playing out the same emotions without the other one knowing. When Clint pushed past Emily and went upstairs, Natasha moved to follow him, but Emily had grabbed her arm.

“Sometimes you have to let it go,” Emily told Natasha quietly.

Natasha shivered a bit and said to Emily honestly, “He has the right to be angry with me this time.”

Emily nodded, a little stunned, but refusing to show Natasha she was surprised by the admission. “All the more reason to let it go.”

But Natasha had stiffened the moment that Clint swung into the kitchen and to his credit, Emily thought, Clint wasn’t doing anything to diffuse the tension. She hadn’t missed the way the entire table had paused to figure out what she assumed were new seating arrangements and she didn’t think it was the addition of her chair to the table.  The discussion was hands down the strangest dinnertime topic that she had ever heard. But then, she had never had dinner with the Avengers.

Her phone buzzed beneath the table and Emily checked it quickly.

 **Darcy**  
                        Welcome to every night for the rest of your life.  
            **Emily**  
                        lol I am only here three times a week  
 **Darcy**  
                        You say that now. These kids are like crack. Crazy addictive to be the only normal person in the room.  
            **Emily**  
                        You called yourself normal?  
            **Darcy  
                        ** funny funny haha. Oh dear god, hold on.

And Darcy had taken the surveillance photos from Steve in an impressive attempt to keep work off the table, but a failed attempt nonetheless. Emily gave her a sympathetic smile across the table. The tension in the table rose, Natasha’s body growing so tense next to Emily that Emily cast her a frightened glance. Natasha challenged Clint who didn’t even have a chance to respond before Steve, the unofficial team leader, put a kabash, as her grandmother would say, on her protests by asking Clint how long it would take him to do the mission. Her father. Going into a war torn area. Intentionally. Without backup. Alone. She almost screamed _you can’t, he’s mine_ , and she thought that Natasha was on the verge of saying it, but instead, Natasha’s entire face went blank and she stood, pushing away from the table. Emily watched her cross over to the kitchen, scrape off her plate, and slam it into the dishwasher. The plate shattered with a rattling noise.

Clint stood quietly, moving across the kitchen like he was approaching a wild animal. He reached down to pick up a piece of plate on the ground. Emily watched him with her breath caught in her throat. The entire room was still.

“I don’t need your help!” cried Natasha, swatting at Clint’s hand.

Emily didn’t hear her reply, but she understood Natasha. She knew enough about Natasha to know a few things. One was that the age difference between Clint and Natasha was the age difference between Natasha and Emily. Two was that Natasha had hinted on more than one occasion that she grew up in unusual circumstances in Russia where her childhood was not normal. She had not learned to play, or interact with people, like other teenagers had. Emily remembered the first time that Natasha had seen Clint throw Emily over his shoulder, run outdoors to the pool, and throw her, squealing, into the pool, even when she was fully dressed. Natasha had been pale and frightened, unable to understand the dynamic, that Clint had done something that appeared violent but was playful, that Emily was laughing, and Clint was grinning. Emily had had to reassure her, at age eleven, that she was fine and she didn’t care if her dad threw her in a pool.

Natasha straightened, and whatever the look was on her face, Emily watched her father’s face fall to pieces and he drew Natasha into an embrace. Emily exhaled slightly. They would be fine. They always were. Still, she worried sometimes what would happen to her father if Natasha ever left. She could hear them talking in low tones but she thought they were speaking in Russian. She did not speak Russian.

“I guess you’re used to that by now,” said Bruce quietly from Emily’s other side. He didn’t look up from cutting his green beans in small pieces. Emily watched him cut up the vegetable and wondered vaguely what he thought when he was cutting up green things.

Emily shrugged, glancing at her father and Natasha in the kitchen picking up the pieces of the shattered plate together. “They’re both pretty intense.”

Bruce’s eyes flitted up to hers and his smile was small and reluctant. “You’re as closed-mouthed as he is.”

Emily smiled. “I think that’s a compliment in my family.”

Bruce lowered his eyes again. “We’re still getting used to it here. They feel like the most volatile people in the Tower sometimes.” He paused and looked at her again. “You see the irony in me saying that.”

She shrugged, giving him an acknowledging smile. “A little bit, yes.” She looked down the table where people were resuming arguments and conversations, letting the scene in the kitchen settle down to a private moment between Clint and Natasha who were still picking up the pieces. “They aren’t volatile, really. They’re never going to _hurt_ each other, not intentionally. They just are both so,” she searched her mind for the word and had to settle for, “fucking frustrated.”

Bruce laughed, a soft chuckle that matched his personality, shy and quiet and unassuming and yet capable of so much. “Yeah. So they’ve never…?”

Emily shrugged. “As far as I know, no. Crazy isn’t it.”

“Crazy that I’m having this discussion with Hawkeye’s daughter,” Bruce replied easily. He speared a bean and chewed it thoughtfully.

Emily figured everyone was going to have to get used to the fact that they were talking with her sooner or later. It was getting annoying for people to pause, stare at her, shake their heads, and say, “You’re really Clint’s daughter, aren’t you” throughout the day. Then again, it was only her first day. She finished her dinner in peace and cleaned up her plate. She gingerly slipped behind Natasha.

Clint was saying to Natasha quietly, “We’re partners.”

“This is Volgograd,” she replied.

He snorted. “All the more reason I should have your back.”

“You don’t understand,” Natasha sounded almost desperate. “It’s Red Room, Clint. There’s a good possibility that I won’t—“

“Don’t say it,” he said fiercely.

“You have to come back,” she said at last, her voice a low murmur. “You have Emily.”

“Natasha,” he whispered. The tone in his voice almost doubled Emily over. “Szerelmem.”

            Emily quickly slipped away from the sink before she heard any more. Bruce gestured for her to bring over her homework. He helped her fumble her way through her required calculus class. Emily liked the post-dinner lull in the Tower that she suspected she caught the night before. Jane and Darcy were teaching each other to knit and they sat on one of the love seats facing each other, giggling at the mess that was in their laps. Pepper came over with wine, handing each of them a glass, and trying to help them to sort out the disasters. Tony and Bruce looked over science news and technology, with Tony occasionally playing with a new gadget. Steve was reading a book in a chair, looking particularly lonesome in a way that made Emily’s heart ache for him. Behind her on the couch, Clint and Natasha had come to some sort of a truce, the way they could. She was in a small curled up ball, reading a magazine, and he was laying stretched out, his head in her lap, reading another book. It was a scene that Emily had seen repeated a hundred million times on a hundred different couches in a hundred different places.

            “Alright,” Emily said reluctantly. She smiled at Bruce. “Thanks for your help.”

            “Leaving?” asked Clint, swinging upright. He leaned over and peered at her homework over her shoulder. He shook his head. “If those were in word problems, maybe I could do them. Thanks for helping, Bruce.”

            “Walking me out?” Emily asked, amused, when she stood up and he stood up too.

            Her father gave her a half hearted shrug, a smile, and they got in the elevator together. The doors closed and he sighed. “I’m sorry. It was a rough day.”

            “You and Natasha going to be okay?” she asked after a moment, watching him closely.

            “We always are,” he said, sounding sad.

            They reached the main floor and Clint walked her out to the car. Emily didn’t miss the way his eyes scanned the crowds on the sidewalks, the people lingering outside the club across the street, and the windows above. He leaned over the open door. He said softly, “Coming tomorrow?”

            “Yeah. I have a class in the morning but I’ll be here in the afternoon,” she gave him a reassuring smile. “Are you here?”

            “Yeah,” Clint gave her a smile. “I could actually use your help tomorrow. Have a good night, Emmy. Text me when you get home.”

            “Don’t pretend that the driver doesn’t give you an update,” Emily retorted playfully.

            Clint grinned widely at her. “He does. But I like to hear it from you. Give your overprotective old man a break.”

            “Love you, Dad,” Emily said softly.

            “Love you, Em,” he ruffled her hair and then shut the door.

            Emily watched her father stand out on the curb as the car pulled away into New York traffic. She pulled out her cell and texted her boyfriend Jem with a smile.

            **Emily  
                        ** first day winning!  
            **Jem**  
                        ah! Tell me everything. How was it? Is Stark as crazy as he sounds?  
            **Emily**  
                        he talks really fast but he’s not so bad.  
            **Jem**  
                        what’d you do?  
             
            Emily hesitated and then replied.

  
            **Emily**  
                        inventory. For the Avengers. But you can’t tell anyone.  
            **Jem**  
                        no fucking way. That’s so cool.  
            **Emily**  
                        I’m not supposed to tell anyone, Jem, so shhhh  
            **Jem**  
                        don’t worry. Ah, I have to go to class now. I love you. Skype tomorrow?

            **Emily**  
                        of course. Love you too, Jem.

 

 


	5. Codes and Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: it got REALLY ANGSTY up in here. 
> 
> Chapter song: Codes and Keys by Death Cab for Cutie
> 
> _we won’t get far/flying circles inside a jar/because the air we breathe/is thinning with the words that we speak_

**   
** **Chapter 5: Codes and Keys**

            Clint went back upstairs feeling like he ran a marathon. He was not a marathon runner. He could wait in stillness for hours at a time. His game was patience but today he felt like he ran out of patience, like he had played at Natasha’s game of push and pulling marks, but he couldn’t decide who the mark was. He had a terrible sneaking suspicion that he lost today.  He had not truly understood the weight he would feel from Emily’s eyes the entire time and the additional layers of guarding he would institute instinctively around her. He would not shake Natasha senseless in front of Emily, not that he could ever shake Natasha senseless, but with his anger, he might. He hated carrying anger and fear for this long in his body. It was exhausting. He was too old for this shit.

            Rightfully, Natasha’s posture and eyes were guarded when he came back in. She knew that he had resisted throwing a fit because Emily was sitting there and because she had been tearful. She stood when he entered and the room stilled, looking at them. Clint wanted to drag the red of her roots through the ends of her hair. He wanted to punch things. He wanted to scream. He could barely contain everything that spun like a hurricane inside of him. He felt like they had regressed twelve years back to the independent and foolhardy decisions she made when she was first at SHIELD and how terrified he was.

            Steve said quietly, “Emily did well today. I think that was the right decision.”

            “Yes,” Clint said distractedly. He prowled across the room. He said in Russian, “We need to talk.”

            Natasha tilted her head and he thought she was surprised that he hadn’t outted the fight to the entire team. She looked a little relieved. She moved slowly to him and replied in Russian, “You will not change my mind. This is my decision.”

            He said quietly, his voice low and taut, feeling the tightrope between them as she stalked closer to him, “We are partners.”

            She paused and said, “Not in this area we are not.”

            He looked over her shoulder at the team and said, “Let’s go somewhere.”

            The gym was the only logical place to go. He couldn’t think when he was angry and she was in his bedroom, and he wasn’t allowed in her bedroom. That was never explicitly stated but she never invited him and he never tried. He didn’t want to die. Not usually. They went to the gym and changed in silence. They stretched, muscles and ligaments warming to life, and still, the silence hung between them. They stepped into the ring, bare handed, barefooted, dressed in comfortable, loose fitted clothing. He loved watching her circle him, her eyes alert and her body like a lioness. But mostly, he wanted to attack her right then.

            He snapped, moving forward with a series of sharp, violent attacks, his fists opening and shutting. She whirled, blocking him and cursing slightly when his foot caught hers, landing her on the mat but she arched her back and bounced herself upright, her toes touching before she twisted and attacked back.

            “Things are different now,” she told him, her voice a tiny bit breathless, her cheeks pink.

            He licked the sweat on the top of his lip. “Since when?”

            “Last spring,” she said simply. “Things are different. I am not SHIELD. You are. We are no longer partners.”

            “That’s bullshit,” he said, ducking, blocking, parlaying. “I’ve backed you up on four missions since then, and gone out with the team six times.”

            “We were partners and things changed,” she told him quietly. “You leveled out and found where you were comfortable. We all had to level out. I need some of the independence.”

            “I had no idea that I cramped your style so much.”

            “I do not understand that phrase in this context.”

            “Don’t be coy, Tasha,” he snapped, grunting when her fist made contact and he returned the blow, reveling in the way she hissed sharply, air violently rushing between her teeth like the way knives left her hands. “It isn’t becoming.”

            “Isn’t it?” she asked, her voice a little raspy. She retreated slightly. “There is something I need in Volgograd and you cannot come with me.”

            “I know. I looked into it at SHIELD. You think the Red Room has restarted. Tell me how that doesn’t involve me.”

            “They fucked with me, not you.” Her answer was so simple he dropped his hands and stared at her. She barely managed to pull back her blow and she stopped, backing up, looking at him confusedly.   “What?”

            “Tasha,” Clint said quietly. “Before Sofia, when they fucked with you, it didn’t concern me. But the second time, that was personal. What the Red Room did to you they did to me too.”

            Her gaze turned cold and defensive. “You don’t—“

            “Natasha, what Loki did to me, he did to you too. That’s why you dropped everything at Coulson’s request and came in.”

            Natasha looked absolutely confused now and scared. He saw her eyes flickering, flashing between Natasha and the aloof glaze of the Widow. He braced himself in case she slipped straight into Widow mode, but she reached behind her, wrapping a slim hand around the rope, and he recognized the grounding effort for what it was.

He softened, a little bit, and said, softly, “Natashka, you know this. This is why you come into my room and watch crappy TV with me. This is why you curl up on the couch with me. This is why you spent six hours pulling glass out of my back after last May. You don’t…this is partnership. What is done unto us is done unto both of us.”

“You could be a poet next,” she said after a pause. She looked into the lights and then back at him, and he watched her pupils go from pinpricks to wide and dark in the change. “That is why you can’t come to Volgograd. It is no place for a sniper or an archer. It is Red Room. And what they could turn you into, if they got you, Clint, I couldn’t—you can’t be—not after last year. You have Emily and she knows now.”

He exhaled hard. “Is that why you campaigned for her to join us? So that I had one more debt to carry with me?”

Natasha had the guts to actually look apologetic. “Yes.”

Clint looked away from her honesty. “Natasha, you cannot walk in there alone.”

“I can’t allow them to rebuild the way they did last time.”

“Let the team help.”

“No. This is my mission. This was my intel. I have been working for this since before New York.”

His eyes rose and met hers again. “That hurts, Natasha.”

She shrugged a tiny bit. “Clint, you would not let me go.”

He thought she meant more than just this Volgograd mission. “Natasha, don’t go. Share the intel with me and I will help you. We’ll plan it out.”

“Red Room is on _my_ ledger,” she snapped at him, her eyes flashing like the Widow again.

Losing Natasha had been a blow to the Red Room. They lost almost everything when she left. But when they recaptured her, reprogrammed her, Clint had gotten her back and they had gone back together. Clint had nearly died and Natasha had not successfully managed to blow up their facilities. She brought him to safety instead. He wondered if she blamed him getting shot on that mission for why the Red Room had rebuilt now to the point where she wanted to infiltrate and destroy. He wondered if she didn’t think they could get in and out again.

Like she had read his mind, Natasha said quietly, “It is not because you were shot the last time. Clint, we’re compromised when we’re in the field together. We do not think clearly. This is why the Red Room never used partners.”

Clint glared at her. “We also have saved more lives because we know how to work together.”

She shook her head. “You can’t forbid me from going.”

“Don’t I know it,” Clint muttered under his breath. He stretched down and touched his toes to buy him time. “Natasha. Please.”

He could see her shift her weight slightly. “Clint, please don’t.”

He stilled. “Does that mean if I keep asking you won’t embark on a suicide mission?”

“It isn’t a suicide mission. Not necessarily.”

He thought he might vomit. He looked up, feeling hollowed out, like she had taken from him with those words. “It would kill me to lose you.”

She shuddered. “That’s not true. You’d find someone else.”

“Is that true? You think that’s true? If Loki had killed me, would you have found someone else?” he asked her.

Natasha’s fingers curled around the rope. “No.”

He could see the struggle playing out in her eyes and he knew it came down to this: she believed that she was not worthy of the same things he, or anyone, was in life because she simply had a ledger to balance out, a debt to repay to those who had given her mind back. And here was her mind at work, struggling to carry the disparity between the world within her and the words he was offering her, like the way she could not carry the world within her and the bond he could offer her and so he never said those words, never said what he suspected they both knew and could not carry. She believed that he could move on, but she would not, and it wasn’t emotional, not for her, it was her cold truth. It was a hard truth for her to carry, and a harder truth for him to swallow.

“It is the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing,” she sighed. “Loki took you from me without permission, from either you or me. I am leaving on my own accord.”

“Why?”

“Because I am the only one and this is my burden.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s the only one I can give you.”

“Natasha.”

“Clint.”

“Please don’t do something stupid and foolhardy. This is something the old Natasha would do. This is what _Natalia_ did. You don’t do this. You plan meticulous missions and you utilize the resources at your disposal. You have us.”

“I can’t be responsible for others’ deaths.” He would burn her ledger to the fucking ground if he could, if it wasn’t an intangible thing dangling between them, the glass that he could never break, everything that kept him stomping back on the well of feelings that threatened to drown him whenever she was near.

“When did you become such a martyr?”

She gave him a sad smile. “I am no martyr, Clint.”

He stepped closer to her. “I will not let you do this. I will follow you.”

She closed her eyes and he closed the distance between them, slipping an arm over her shoulders and pulling her against him. Her arms slid around him and he inhaled the smell of her—sweat and lavender, freedom and war—and never wanted to let her go.

“Why?” she asked him, hoarse.

“You know,” he said fiercely. He felt her fingers curl against him and she said nothing for a long time.

“Emily,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “You have Emily.”

He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening in her shoulder. “Natasha. Give it a few days. Please. Think about it.”

He thought for a long moment that she was going to refuse, but her shoulders sagged a little, her body slumping against him in something that felt like relief. She nodded slowly. He slid his other arm around her and held her against him. He kissed the side of her head. She gripped him close.

“No guarantees,” she said, lifting her mouth free from his chest.

“Understood,” he said, though he had no intentions of letting her out of his sight for the indeterminate future. “We’ll go over the intel and what you have. Let’s talk about it and maybe we can find a middle ground. This is a mission. We can treat it like one.”

            “I can’t let them do to others what they did to me,” she told him, her voice a murmur.

            “And I won’t let you throw your life away because of your damn ledger and pride,” he replied firmly. “There’s a middle ground somewhere.” He paused and added, “You have to let me in, Natasha.”

            “You know you’re the only one who has ever been let in.”

            “You’re shutting me out.”

            “I don’t want to hurt you.” It was the closest thing she had ever said to meaning what Clint meant when he had scowled at her and told her that she knew why he wouldn’t let her simply walk off and disappear.

            “You will if you walk off on a suicide mission with no planning and no backup.”

            “Three days.”

            “Three days.”


	6. A Matter of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry it's taken me a long time to update my fics. I have been writing my own original fic since mid February and it's taking up all of my writing time. THAT BEING SAID, I am using fanfic as a break from the heavy duty revisions I'm going through with the giant novel sitting on my lap, so I promise to be more active. I have tons of fic to read and post.
> 
> ANYWAYS I'm very sorry and I hope that you forgive me for a few rough chapters as I get back into the swing of things (and remember where I was going with this...*coughcough*)

Emily sat on the floor surrounded by piles of mission reports, half of which were heavily redacted, and fifteen colored folders, tabs, and binders. Theoretically, and this did in fact seem to be a task that could only be accomplished in theory, she was supposed to sort missions by type (team, individual, Clint/Natasha, Stark/Banner were the most common), then by location, then by threat posed (individual, weapons, chemical, biological, unknown), and then finally by outcome. Except the outcomes were by and large redacted. 

When she asked a very harried Darcy how she was supposed to read the redacted outcomes, Darcy snapped over her shoulder, “I don’t know. Hold it up to the light or something.” Then she had stomped back to the lab. Emily’s pass key did not get her into the lab to ask any additional questions. So she sorted until the final step, and stared at the resulting piles.

Part of her didn’t want to know what the outcomes were. Part of her was awed by the people around her. And a very overwhelmingly large part of her was afraid of them. She was afraid of what they could do. She was afraid of her father, of Natasha who seduced and killed people while Emily’s father watched over her with a sniper rifle or a bow and arrow. How could he stand it? How could any of them stand it?

Her cellphone went off again. 

Jem: how’s it going, hottie?  
Emily: ew don’t call me that. it’s okay. bit boring  
Jem: what are you doing?  
Emily: sorting mission reports  
Jem: that’s so fucking awesome  
Emily: not really  
Jem: but they’re so badass, right? i can’t believe your dad is fucking Hawkeye  
Emily: Jem, stop. You haven’t told anyone right?  
Jem: of course not. I’m not an idiot. But i’m getting his signature when I get home  
Emily: lol ok you go ahead and ask him. i’ll laugh.  
Jem: And I gotta meet Natasha. I hear she’s bangin’  
Emily: gross, Jem.   
Jem: you’re obvi the hottest girl I know  
Emily: until you meet Natasha?  
Jem: yeah but then you’ll still be the second hottest

Emily rolled her eyes. Jem missed her. He made that abundantly clear the last few nights that they had Skyped. She was glad they hadn’t broken up just so he could study abroad but sometimes, it felt impossible to maintain a relationship over the distance. It was strange and uncomfortable to be on webcam. She didn’t like it. After that frustration, she didn’t particularly want to hear about how Jem thought someone was more attractive than her. Not that Natasha would ever look at Jem with an expression of anything other than amusement. Not while she was busy being strange with Clint.   
In the two days since the epic dinner fallout, Clint and Natasha moved around each other like eggshells. The entire team did with each other. Darcy was tense and spent all of her time in the lab with satellite imagery up on the big screens from what Emily could see. Jane was bent over her table. Emily hadn’t seen Bruce at all. Tony was tinkering in his lab and sleeping not at all. Pepper was away and couldn’t know, but that didn’t stop Steve from fussing over Tony, but only from a distance. 

For two days, Clint and Natasha sat in the kitchen for hours. Most of the papers in front of them were in Russian. Natasha sat, crosslegged, on top of the table. This didn’t seem to surprise any one of them, except Darcy who paused, tilted her head at Natasha’s back, and then shrugged before putting her cup in the sink and slipping quietly away. Every time Emily went onto that floor for coffee or lunch, she saw them there. They spoke only in Russian to each other. Natasha’s red hair was back and braided, making her look young. She looked exhausted and drawn. Clint looked gray at times. They rarely acknowledged Emily. 

She thought she took the job to spend more time with her dad, but that hadn’t happened. Not yet. Instead, walking around Stark Tower was like walking around a funeral home. Emily got up and stretched, looking at the piles of papers. There was no use trying to do this assignment. Time to go find her father and ask how he thought they’d be better organized. 

Her cell beeped. 

Emily rolled her eyes, typing in the code. Jem was being demanding today.

Dad: please come to living rm. Team meeting. We need you here.

She shoved the cell in her back pocket and ran.

She didn’t like what she saw. Natasha sat on the couch, and Clint on the other end. Darcy sat between them with a laptop on the coffee table. Tony paced in front of them, holding and reading a tablet. Steve sat in a chair, studying the backs of his hands. Bruce was twirling his glasses while trying to read Darcy’s computer over the back of the couch. Clint looked up and gave Emily a faint smile. Natasha didn’t look up at all. She looked like she was dying.

“Hi, Emily,” Jane said quietly, appearing from the kitchen. She handed Natasha a cup of tea. Natasha curled around it. Clint’s eyes flashed over to her and his lips tightened but he didn’t say anything. Jane gestured to a chair. “Take a seat.”

Emily sank, gratefully, into a chair. “What’s going on?”

Clint cleared his throat. “Tasha?” Natasha mutely shook her head. Clint sighed. He looked at Emily and unclenched his hands. “In Russia there is an organization known as the Red Room. They began primarily as a human trafficking operation but then began to acquire advanced technology. That’s when they began to kidnap, train, and genetically enhance girls to become assassins who became close to their marks through acts of seduction.”

“I was one of them.” Natasha’s voice was low and pained.

Clint glanced sideways at her. “She was their Crown Jewel.”

“He flipped her,” Tony added quietly, surprisingly low key and solemn for his normal jovial self. “Then she was ours. Kind of.” He gestured to Clint. “Mostly his, but you knew that.”

Emily raised her eyebrows and waited for the disagreement from her father or Natasha, but it didn’t come. Then her eyebrows disappeared behind her bangs. They always denied it whenever she suggested previously that they were each other’s, even if they weren’t sharing a bed. But now, they were silent. Silence was agreement, right?

“The Red Room restarted. They took Tas—Natasha and reprogrammed her and we deprogrammed again.” Clint started again, still staring at his hands.   
“She and I went in and tried to destroy the central information that allowed them to do their alterations to the girls. We failed.”

Natasha shifted on the couch slightly. “I received information about six weeks after New York City from another former Red Room operative that they were back up and releasing girls into the wild.” She smiled slightly. “That’s what they called it.”

“Natasha’s going back in. She’s pretending to defect. She has been laying the digital trail pretty thick. Thick enough that SHIELD’s genuinely suspicious and that if the Red Room goes looking, they’ll see that she’s been plotting this for months, since New York. She and Hawkeye haven’t done missions together since then, she’s left SHIELD, etc. It’s a solid foundation.” Tony looked up from his tablet, his mouth set firmly, and met Natasha’s eyes. “She’ll go in alone. Hawkeye is too risky to send in.”

“It’s incredibly dangerous,” Steve added. His voice was tight. “They could execute her on the spot just to prove a point to the other girls. They can reprogram her mind. They can experiment on her –“

“Captain, shut it.” Natasha’s voice was cold and cutting but when Emily looked at her, she was casting a wary glance across Darcy’s lap to Clint who laced his fingers tightly together. “We know the risks.”

We was Clint and Natasha. That much was clear.

Emily couldn’t keep her voice from shaking. “So why? Why is the risk worth it?”

Natasha met her eyes. “Because there are sixty two girls in there being abused, experimented upon, and their minds ruined like I and my peers, and they will wreck havoc on the world. They will kill and fuck and plunder this world into chaos again. I can’t allow it. Not for the girls, not for the rest of the world who are their victims.”

Emily’s eyes shifted desperately to her father. “How can you let her?”

Clint looked up and gave her a tense, sad smile, his eyes wide and full. “I don’t let Natasha do anything and I can’t stop her from doing what she wants, Emily. That’s not how we work. We came to an agreement and the intelligence supports her methodology over others.”

Emily swallowed. “You do risk assessment on mission objectives. I’ve spent two days with the reports. What’s the assessment here?”

“High chance of success. Over eighty percent I’ll get done in there what I need to get done.” Natasha leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “I’m good at what I do, Emily. I’m going to shut down the Red Room.”

“And what’s the analysis on your chances of getting out of there alive?” Emily couldn’t believe she had to ask the question.

Everyone’s eyes hit the ground. There was a long pause and then it was Clint, in a voice surprisingly steady and quiet, who said, “Low.”

“How low?”

Clint met Emily’s eyes. “We think there’s a ten percent chance she’ll get out safely. Goes up to about thirty percent if you just ask if she’ll get out alive without any conditions on that.”

Tears streaked Emily’s cheeks and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently. Jane stood behind her and rubbed her back. Natasha didn’t meet Emily’s eyes and rage swelled up in the younger girl. This was the woman who took her father’s heart, refused to give it back or to act upon it, and she was throwing her life away. This was the woman who saved millions of lives, and she was willing to throw it away for sixty two lives. This was the woman who had helped raised her, who had taught her to put on makeup and how to defend herself from unwanted attention and men. This was the woman who held her when her first boyfriend dumped her in front of the entire school. This was Natasha and she was walking away like it didn’t matter.

“How can you?” screamed Emily, leaping out of her seat. Everyone scrambled to their feet but Natasha was faster. She stepped towards Emily and let Emily’s first blow collide with her chest. She wrapped her arms around Emily and Emily’s heart and contained sobs and tears burst all over Natasha. Natasha held her tight, said nothing, and let Emily rage against her until she softened, shaking and warm and damp, and then she released her. 

Clint reached for Emily but Emily snatched herself away from both of them. She wiped at her eyes and said to Natasha, “How can you leave him?”

She heard the audible intake of breath from everyone around her. Natasha flinched. She said quietly, “I didn’t make this decision lightly.”

“Don’t you know how he feels about you?” Emily pointed at her father.

Clint’s voice laced with tension. “Emily.”

“He _loves_ you.” Emily couldn’t stop shaking. “He has from the first time he came home and told me about you. He loves you and you’re going to do this to him?”

“Emily, you don’t think we’ve talked about this?” Her father sounded broken and tired. “The Red Room needs to be taken out. It’s complex getting in there and the person with the most chance of getting in safely is Natasha. We gamed it out with me going in and I would be killed before the first step. There’s no other way. Tony’s backing her up on the periphery. We know how to run this and give her the best chance of coming back.”

“Why am I even here? Why even bother telling me?” Emily looked away from Natasha and tried to look at Darcy, but she couldn’t handle the pity on her new friend’s face. “And why in front of everyone?”

“Because she’s leaving tonight. She wanted to say goodbye to you, give the justification, and because we’d like you in our situation room, show you how it works. Maybe you’ll understand it more.” Clint reached out and cupped Emily’s face between both of his hands. His hands that had killed people. His hands that had chosen who would die and who would live. Emily wanted to pull away from him. “Emmy, please.”

Emily shuddered. “There is no justification.”

“Isn’t there?” Natasha said softly. “Emily, I’m fucked up in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ll never be the person I wish I could be for this team, for you, for your dad. There are sixty two more girls being made into me right now, and hundreds if not thousands more. Isn’t that worth it?”

“Why? Why does it have to be you?” Emily choked out. 

“Because what they did to me gave me what I needed to destroy them,” she answered simply. 

“It isn’t fair.” Emily looked at her father in the eyes this time. 

He nodded. “I know. It never is, kid.”

Emily pulled away and wiped her face. She said, “Situation room?”

“Yeah,” Clint looked sad. “Usually Darcy and Jane help support missions from there. This time it’ll be me and Steve.”

Natasha touched Clint’s shoulder. “Can Emily come with me while I get ready?”

Clint looked at her small hand on his shoulder. He nodded. “If she wants.”

Emily wanted to talk to Natasha in private. She followed Natasha out of the room without another word.


	7. I Have Loved You Wrong

Letting Natasha walk into almost certain death should have been impossible. But it didn’t feel real. Clint felt like he was floating in a dream. Natasha was his rock, his anchor, the center of him. She kept him here when the world became blurred and unsteady. The idea that she would go on a mission that she was unlikely to return from, deliberately, seemed unimaginable. 

But she had been right. She had, behind his back, researched every possible angle and her going in alone was the only way they could. The Red Room knew better these days. She would have to go to Groznjy first, meet someone there, and then she would go through a series of checkpoints. At any point, she could be killed. But Natasha’s ability to slip back into the Black Widow and Natalia had always been frightening. For once, it would be a tool, instead of a possible risk to an operation. In the last two days, he looked over every single scrap of intelligence she accumulated. They spent most of the day building the fake secrets to sell to the Red Room. They would be crucial to enforcing Natasha’s story of defection and to keeping her alive.

The deadline was strict. Natasha’s contact at the Red Room told her to be in a certain place at a certain time. To deviate from that timeline would cause them to be suspicious. The goal was to give Natasha the best chance she had at succeeding, followed by the best chance of getting out alive. Her ability to contact them after she landed in Chechnya would be limited. 

It should bother him more.

It bothered him that it didn’t bother him as much as it should.

But he felt like he was in slow motion while Natasha and Emily left the living room and Tony left to get his suit on. He would leave ahead of time in case of Natasha was being watched here in the city and someone found it suspicious that they left together. It was Jane who touched Clint’s elbow and gave him a gentle smile as she led him to the Situation Room like he was a child.

Clint stood next to Steve who took his regular seat. He reached forward and drew up the maps and the steps, throwing them onto the big projections. He said quietly, “JARVIS, can we get satellite imagery for last two hours around those addresses?”

“Yes sir,” Jarvis replied and data began to scroll on the left side of the screen.

Jane said quietly, “There’s still time to call it off.”

“She’ll go with or without us.” Clint reached forward and zoomed on the images. “I’d rather her go with our support and have the best shot of getting out alive.”

“Did you actually talk about it?” Jane asked. She pointed at the screen. “That’s a lot of delivery trucks for ten thirty at night in Groznyj.”

“Yeah, it is.” Clint leaned forward and ran a query on the delivery company. “Talk about what?”

“Don’t be daft. You’re too smart for that. You told Emily that you and Natasha talked about your…” Jane drifts off, and even though Clint knows where she’s going, she finishes strong. “Feelings for each other.”

“As much as we ever do.” Clint sat down to scroll through everything he found on the delivery company. It was in Russian and his brain bounced between the Russian on the screen and the English he was speaking.

“What does that mean?” Jane’s tone frosted a bit at the edges.

“It means not now, Jane,” Steve cut her off. “What’s been said has been said. We need to focus on the mission. Clint, what do you have?”

“Pretty leaky cover on this business, especially for Red Room. I think someone else has their eye on her and heard she’d be around as a free agent shopping for a new home,” Clint shook his head. “I doubt they’ll be a threat if they can’t even falsify their web presence. Same IP address as a really low key Chinese crime ring that’s trying to get in on that Tibet drama.”

“Give her a heads up.”

“Give who a heads up on what?”

Natasha walked in ahead of Emily who looked clear-eyed and a little less destroyed. Clint watched Natasha cross the room to stand beneath the big screens, her arms crossed. She wore civilian clothes. They’d strip search her anyway and it would look strange if she showed up in SHIELD mission clothes. She turned and met his eyes over the room. That look would never not make his heart slam fiercely against his ribs, pounding like a prisoner against bars when fresh air and freedom seemed so close and so far away at the same time.

“What’s that?” She gestured to the photo of the delivery truck.

“A low dirty shittily run Chinese crime ring who’s trying to get in on your action. Word’s out that you’re looking to set up shop elsewhere.”

She nodded. “Good. I’m going out the back door. I don’t want anyone to be following or looking me. I’m taking a cab to La Guardia. I have a flight to Paris. Paris to Kyiv. Kyiv to Yerevan. Yerevan is where I get my private flight. That’s where you’ll lose track of me. I’ll check in at the hotel under the name of Aliya Brachev. That will be the last breadcrumb until I get to the lab. I’ll ping you as soon as I get there and can.”

Clint knew the plan. He knew all of the steps between the bullet points she listed. He checked the time. “You ready to go? USB?”

“Tucked away,” she said with a slight smile.

He crossed his arms. “If you have any trouble before you get to the hotel…”

“I’ll contact Tony. He and I have the details.” Her eyes darkened slightly and she crossed the room in three long, graceful strides. He barely had a moment to take in a breathe when he realized what she was doing before she slipped her arms beneath his tshirt against his hot skin and buried her face against his neck. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into her wild red curls.

He whispered, “Tasha.”

She shook her head microscopically and whispered, “Don’t you dare, Clint Barton. I have to do this. You know I do.”

“I’m not asking you to stay.” But maybe telling her that he loved her would be the same thing. 

Her cold fingers dug into his back. She had started sliding her hands under his shirt years ago for comfort and because she was always cold when her adrenaline was high. It had been days since she sought him out like this and a part of him thought it was cruel. The rest of him was desperate for her. They stood like that for a long time, gripping onto each other, before her fingers loosened off his back. He pulled away slightly, cupped her head in his hands, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her hands curled around his wrists and she closed her eyes.

“Time to go, Natasha. You don’t want to miss your flight.” Steve spoke apologetically. 

Clint kissed her forehead again, her cheeks, and rested his forehead against hers. “Promise me you’ll try and come home. Please, Natashka.”

“I promise.” 

And she was gone, pulled away from him, and out of the room, and as illogical and impossible as it was, Clint swore the entire world was a little darker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry?


	8. Soon We'll Be Found

Natasha made her first checkpoint. She checked in under the name that triggered a signal to the Avengers in the system and Emily watched her dad’s shoulders slump. She thought it was relief that she made it to Groznyj. It took her weeks to realize that it was defeat. He had, she realized, honestly believed and clung to that irrational belief that Natasha would bow out of the mission. When Natasha asked Emily to accompany her, it became clear that Natasha felt this was the only way to balance out her karma in the world (she kept calling it her ledger) and that she was born to do this. 

_“You don’t understand”, she told Emily. “And that’s the point. I never want you or any other girl to understand what happened to us in there. No one should know.”_

_“Does my dad know?” asked Emily._

_Natasha paused. “Yes. But he’s different.”_

_Emily wanted to ask her if she loved him. But she didn’t. Instead she said, “Are you even trying to survive this mission?”_

_Natasha met Emily’s eyes and replied softly, “There are days when I want suicide missions. But I promise you, Em, this isn’t one of those times. I’ll do my best to come home to you and your dad.”_

Emily worked with Darcy in the lab. Jane traveled for work. And for the most part, the world spun on as if Natasha wasn’t off in the middle of Russia putting her life at risk for sixty two innocent lives. The only thing that was different was Clint who spent almost all of his waking hours in the situation room and almost all of the hours he should have been sleeping. Emily hadn’t ever known him to spend so many consecutive days indoors but then, the more she worked at the Avengers Tower the more she realized how little she knew about her father. 

He was two different people. When she was a child and a teenager, he came and went from her life, often dropping out of communication for months, but she knew it was his job. Unlike her friends with fathers specializing in disappearing acts, she could justify his radio silence with his work. When he was with her, he was warm, kind, and funny. He took her on vacations, taught her to ride a horse, and his gifts were always perfect and poignant. He knew her. He knew that she felt trapped in the town she grew up in Nebraska, so he took her abroad. He paid for French language classes and a summer trip. He was thoughtful and generous and never sent her to voicemail if she called when he wasn’t on a mission. He dropped everything for her, time and time again.

The Clint Barton she saw here was Hawkeye, not her father. He was moody and sullen, prone to hiding in high places. He barely spoke to anyone else unless it was directly related to the Red Room mission or Natasha. He drank coffee like it was water and fiddled with weapons when he was anxious. He felt high strung and explosive to be around, and so for the first time in her life, Emily avoided him. She worked in the lab, went home to her apartment and her roommates, did her homework, and fell asleep. The routine repeated day after day, week three dragging forward before anything changed.

“Natasha’s on screen in the Sit Room if you want to come.” Darcy poked her head into the lab and gestured to Emily. 

Emily scrambled to her feet and upended her piles. She didn’t care. She and Darcy practically ran down the hallway to the elevator. Emily paced as the elevator dropped down six floors underground and opened up into the Situation Room.

Clint was leaning over the console like he could actually get closer to Natasha who was on the big screen. She looked like shit. She was bruised, thin, and had a deep laceration over one cheek that caused her eye to be partially swollen shut. But she was talking cheerfully.

“She’s in,” Steve murmured to Emily and Darcy who came to stand beside him. “They trust her and believe her. She’s going to try and implant the computer virus tonight in their main console. After that, she’s got to get the girls out of there before they figure it out.”

“Where’s she taking them?” Darcy frowned at her. “How’d she get in?”

“A safe house outside the city. It’ll be a long walk.” Steve paused. “And it’s best if you don’t ask that second question.”

Clint was talking to her in Russian, the syllables rolling off his tongue like he was caressing her through the screen. She was nodding and replying simply. She smiled at one point and held up her hands, backs to the screen, and asked him a question. He shrugged and nodded. Natasha leaned forward and touched the camera with a finger. Clint covered his mouth with one hand briefly and then his face cleared of the storm. He swallowed and told her something sharply in Russian. She didn’t look upset. She just nodded and then the screen went black.

“What’s the status?” asked Steve.

“She’ll contact us from the safe house within seventy two hours.” Clint didn’t look nearly as comfortable as he should have. Emily frowned at him and he caught her eye. He shrugged and said, “I know it sounds close to the end, but the risk is still very high. She’s passed on the coordinates to one of the girls that she trusts so we should keep scanning the house for human presence in case the girls make it but she doesn’t. I don’t know that they would know how to contact us.”

“Is it your safe house?” Emily asked.

Clint nodded. “Ours.”

He didn’t mean the Avengers.

Emily said softly, “Dad, maybe you should get some sleep while you can? It might be a long three days for you.”

He smiled a bit. “You’re a good kid.”

“Of course I am,” Emily replied gently. “I’m yours.”

Clint walked to her, squeezed her shoulder, and walked past her. Darcy exhaled when he left the room. “It’s too early to be hopeful, right? So why do I feel hopeful?”

“Knock on wood and pray. She got in which we thought she would.” Steve looked at her, his mouth a thin line and his hazel eyes dark. “It’s the getting   
out that we don’t know can happen.”

Emily exhaled slowly. “I don’t understand why it had to be right now.”

“It feels rushed to us because we weren’t planning this for a year,” Steve touched Emily’s shoulder gently and his face softened. He looked tired too. 

“She was.”

Emily rubbed her forehead. “I need to run out and clear my head. Anyone need anything from Starbucks?”

“I’d kill for a caramel macchiato,” Darcy said, and fished a credit card out of her wallet. “Your drink’s on me, Emily. I’ll be in the office.”

Emily texted Jem as she left the office.

Emily: This job is insane. I don’t know how dad and Nat did it for so many years. And I’m just an office assistant.  
Jem: what’s wrong?  
Emily: nothing, just lots of tension. I’m heading out for starbucks  
Jem: Skype tonight??  
Emily: sure. It’ll be early your time though. You okay?  
Jem: of course. I miss you.

Smiling, Emily stepped out of the elevator and crossed over the lobby. She waved goodbye to the security guards and stepped outside. It was bright and unusually warm for early March in New York City. She walked down the block to Starbucks and cut through a back alley like she always did.

She didn’t see the person under the fire escape until it was too late. She didn’t have a chance to scream before they grabbed her and covered her mouth. Something pinched her neck and everything went black.


	9. Unfinished Business

 

            Someone bangs on Clint’s door. Loudly. Sleepily, he mutters, “Not now, Tasha. Too tired.”

            “Barton, get the fuck up or answer your fucking cellphone!” bellows a familiar voice. Steve. Cursing. Captain America doesn’t curse. Ever.

 Clint’s eyes fly open and everything hits him in a wave. Natasha’s in Russia in the Red Room, pretending to have defected. SHIELD has a hit out on her that the Avengers had to ignore instead of going to Fury for fear of a leak. Natasha isn’t expected to come home. He’s out of bed and at the door, throwing it open desperately.

“What happened?”

Steve looks like shit. He’s pale and his eyes dart around Clint’s head never resting in one place. “Emily—she went for coffee and didn’t come back. Bruce called her and it went to voicemail before it was turned off. We reactivated it from here and have a GPS tracker. It’s not moving normally.”

Clint’s brain couldn’t process fast enough. He had expected to hear that Natasha was dead. But instead, something about Emily. Emily went for coffee. Emily’s cellphone was off. Emily’s cellphone GPS tracker…

His mind cleared. “Someone has her.”

Steve shifts on his feet. “We’re concerned.”

Clint leaves the door open, grabs a jacket and pulls it on. “Let’s go.”

They ran to the Situation Room. Darcy was crying and Jane was rubbing her shoulder. Bruce was hacking into Emily’s phone. _This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening._ Bruce shook his head and gestured for Clint to come read over his shoulder.

Clint leaned down. Pages and pages of text messages with Jem, which didn’t surprise him. But multiple mentions of the Avengers and Natasha. Multiple times Jem asking her what she was working on. And multiple times that Emily told him the truth. He asked her just before she left for coffee what was going on, and she refrained from telling him about the red room mission. But it didn’t matter. If Jem told anyone, or if anyone hacked her phone or his, they would see this and know who Emily was. How could he have been so careless and so blind? Why hadn’t he monitored her texts? He had tried to give her respect and trust, but she loved Jem and he had asked for the truth from her. Of course she gave it. Of course she gave it.

Clint said quietly, “Are there any signs that anyone else read these texts?”

“Not her phone. But if they had his…” Bruce looked up and finished in a very low voice, “We need SHIELD on this, Clint.”

“No. They don’t know about her and we’re not complicating this. Bring up the GPS tracker on the map.”

Bruce moved the map to the big screen. “I’m working on grabbing surveillance footage from all over the city, the entire path. It looks like she’s in a car. She’s moving too fast to be on foot.”

The GPS was motionless now, fifteen blocks away. Clint pointed at the screen. “Send those coordinates and information to me. I’m grabbing a comm. unit, my bow, and a gun.”

Steve grabbed his arm. “I’m backing you up.”

Clint wanted to say no, but he knew Steve wasn’t offering to be kind or because Clint couldn’t handle it. He was offering because it was smart. Clint’s mind was reeling back and forth from being a father to being an assassin, and his body fragmented, coming apart at the seams. He couldn’t hold this much: hold Emily, Emily disappearing, Natasha gone, Natasha not coming back. They were the glue that held him together and they were both gone gone gone vanished and he wasn’t—

            “Maybe you need to stay here.” Bruce was quiet.

            “No. You can’t go. I need you here.” Clint snapped back to attention. “Steve, let’s go.”

            It took them three minutes and twenty seven seconds to be armed and out the front door. The daytime is blinding to Clint. If it were night time, he’d be using rooftops to skim across the city. Now, they go by foot, moving between buildings and in the alleys by dumpsters and trash. They reach the address. It’s a small office building above a pizza store with a fire escape and a rooftop garden. Clint casually cases the pizza joint, swinging past their restroom and through their kitchen. He flashes a fake badge at them to keep them from protesting too much and like he expected, they went back to work and only threw him wary glances. The store was empty with no sign of a basement or a hidden room where a girl could be stored. He didn’t get sketchy looks from anyone inside of the building. He went out the back of it.

            On the ground was Emily’s iPhone.

            Ditched.

            Clint exhaled slowly and touched his ear, scanning the rooftops around him and keeping a hand on the gun on his left side. “She’s gone. Phone’s ditched behind a pizza shop. There are a half dozen places they could have gone.”

            Bruce’s voice crackled “You might want to come back for this. We got a call already.”

            Clint swallowed. “Ransom?”

            “Yes.” Bruce paused. “Complicated. Return to HQ.”

            Steve comes down off the roof and shakes his head. “No tracks, no handprints, nothing.”

            Clint says quietly, “She could be anywhere.”

            “I already called Pepper. She’s putting in a call to the airports and the Port Authority. She and Darcy are putting out a fake Amber Alert. That’ll at least keep them in the city.”

            “Big city.”

            “But not impossible.” Steve gripped his arm. “Barton, this isn’t your daughter anymore. This is a member of a team. You have to separate yourself.”

            “I know.” But Clint appreciated Steve. He nodded. “Let’s go see what Bruce got.”

            Clint Barton has killed many people. He chose who should die and who should live. He killed people who didn’t deserve to die, and he killed those who did. He killed under the effect of mind control a year ago. He killed people he knew. He had blood on his hands. He came to terms with that a long time ago. In a world that gave you one gift, his was impossibly good aim. And that aim was singularly good at ending life. He was used to making decisions. But when he walked into that Situation Room and opened his mouth to ask Bruce for an update, nothing could have prepared him for the screen in front of him. His steps slowed, then stopped.

_This isn’t happening._

         On the screen were two frames. On the left, Natasha, in a chair, bound and gagged, with a gun to her bloodied head. On the right, Emily, on a chair, bound and gagged, with a gun to her bruised head. Both stared back at the camera. Emily looked frightened, but determined. Natasha looked furious, and only a touch afraid.

         In the bottom left corner, over Natasha’s feet, the word “LIVE” blinked again and again and again.

         Clint exhaled slowly. Darcy was shaking so hard she was sitting on the desk. Bruce said quietly, “They’ve been there for twenty minutes. Just after you left.”

         “Message?”

         “You chose who lives and who dies.”

         Clint turned away from the screen and stared at Bruce. _This isn’t happening._ “Do we have voice recognition on the speaker? Has he spoken again? Is there a way to contact him?”

“We just have to use our mike. They’re using Natasha’s comm. device to reach us. The voice was distorted. We’re running specs on it now.”

“How far out is Tony?” Steve moved closer to the screen.

“We’re not sure where she is.” Bruce paused and shook his head. “Where either of them are.”

Clint’s hands made fists, and opened again. This was a mission. Nothing more nothing less. He chose who lived and who died. He sat down at the seat and touched the side of the mike. “This is Clint Barton.”

The voice was delayed, through software that distorted and twisted the voice unrecognizably. “Hello, Agent Barton.”

“What is your request?”

“It is simple. You owe us debt.”

Clint turned off the mike briefly. “Russian.”

“How did you—“ asked Bruce

            “They left out the article before debt.” Clint turned the mike back on. “Why? What debt?”

            “You took something from us.” On the screen, a gloved hand shook Natasha’s ponytail. She winced in pain. Clint’s heart clenched but he focused on the details. The light on the left side of Emily’s face. The type of rope binding their ankles. The height of the ceiling based on Natasha’s height in the chair. “It is our turn. Do you leave your lover here with us to die or be turned as we wish? Or do we release her and take your daughter?”

            _This isn’t happening._

            Natasha’s voice laced through the air like a whip. “Don’t be a fool, Barton.”

            Around him, heads snapped up to stare at the screen where a fist connects with the side of Natasha’s head. Clint doesn’t blink. “You have not explained the why. You could have both of them. Why make me choose?”

            “Because once, you made me choose.”

            Clint knew then exactly who this was. When Natasha was kidnapped and reprogrammed as the Red Room wished, he went hunting for her. He took a great number of lives and SHIELD had no control over him, causing some international incidents. They had taken her and what they did to her was unconscionable. Clint made people pay for the things done unto her. At the time, the head of the Red Room was a man named Drakov. Clint had taken his daughter and his wife and made him choose. Natasha had been particularly unforgiving about that one. She had known Drakov’s daughter and promised her safety before her mind was raped.

            Drakov had chosen his wife.

            His wife had committed suicide before the year ended.

            He lost everything.

            And Clint had been why.

            This was personal.

            Clint turned on the mike again. “Hello, Drakov.”

            “You have not forgotten.” The voice distortion turned off and there was the cool, slippery Russian accented voice Clint remembered.

            “We all do terrible things to rescue the ones we love,” Clint told him carefully. “But you are not doing this to rescue. You are doing this for revenge. That is different. God will not forgive you this.”

            “Do you think God will forgive me for anything I have done?”

            Clint shook his head though Drakov could not see him. “You and I are the same, Drakov. We are unforgivable. But that does not give us a blank slate to do as we wish in the world.”

            “You would send your lover here to kill me.”

            “She defected.” Clint stuck to Natasha’s story. The realization of what he had to do rose in him like a flood. He would drown in it. “I am not responsible for what she chose to do or where she went. She left. And for all intents and purposes, she and I were over last year.”

            “You lie. We have the transcript from today. We’ve been hacked into her phone since she landed in Groznyj. And your daughter—her boyfriend blabbed it at a bar. We had our suspicions and had him followed. Once we confirmed that she was your daughter and working, we hacked her phone and his. It was easy. You’ve become complacent since New York, Agent Barton.”

            “I regret the choice I forced you to make years ago.”

            The voice did not change. “Regret does not change this situation. You are out of time. Make your choice.”

            Steve shut off the mike. “Barton. What’s going on?”

            The safeties on both guns clicked off. 

             _This isn't happening._

            Clint turned back on the mike, and made his choice.

            The screens went black, and there was a single gunshot. 


	10. Salvation Dear

 

            The light was bright in her face. Too bright but did not warm her skin. Artificial light and stale air. The room smelled of cleaner and when they touched her, they came at her with gloves on. They swiped the dirt and powder from her face. They took swabs from her cheeks. They wore masks. They touched her head and put her in a machine that whirred and she felt her heart jump. Her wrists and ankles were treated and wrapped. Every motion hurt. Next to her, a bag of fluids dripped slowly. When she opened her eyes, when she could, she watched the drip. It steadied her back into sleep.

            She woke finally, thirsty and needing to pee. She opened her mouth to make a sound and only a hoarse rasping grunt escaped. It exhausted her. She closed her eyes. Hands closed over her hands. Warm, roughened, strong. She knew those hands. She took a deep breath, and then another. She wanted to cry. The sensation roared up in her, hot and fierce, but she couldn’t find the tears. Her eyes burned from the heat, but when she opened them, they remained dry.

            Clint gave her a tight, watery smile. “Hey.”

            She swallowed and coughed. He reached next to the hospital bed and filled a cup with water. He sat a straw in it. It bobbed strangely and he held it in place, lifting it to her lips. She took a deep breath and sucked in the cool liquid. Relief swamped her.

            She released the straw and croaked. “What happened?”

            Clint shook his head but before he could say anything, a nurse bustled in. She said brightly, “It’s good to see you awake, Emily. My name is Michelle and I’m your nurse. How do you feel?”

            Emily sank onto the pillows. “Sore. Tired. I—“ she closed her eyes and lifted her hand to her neck. Clint leaned forward and caught one of her hands. She whispered, “What happened?”

            “You were taken hostage by someone who had a problem with me,” he replied calmly as the nurse checked over her IV lines and vitals. “But we got you home.”

            “How long have I been here?”

            “Just short of a day. We found you a little before midnight last night.” He brushed her hair out of her face and leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. He whispered hoarsely, “I was so scared, sweetheart.”

            Now the tears came. She gripped his wrist to keep his hand on her. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

            He shook his head and cupped her face. “Don’t apologize. Just rest. They knocked you around and gave you some pretty solid drugs. It’s going to take a few days before you can come home. You just need to get better, okay?”

            She closed her eyes. “Don’t leave me.”

            “I won’t.”

            It took three days for her to recover from the cocktail of horse drugs she was given by the kidnapper. Three days before she was allowed out of the hospital. The team came to visit her in waves, acting as relief so Clint could shower and sleep for short periods of time. Other than that, he never left her side. He also avoided telling her the details of what happened and she couldn’t remember.

            It was Darcy and Steve who told her quietly when she arrived back at the Avenger Tower where her father insisted she said in one of the guest rooms for security reasons. He was upstairs, showering and changing and taking time to sleep in his own bed instead of a hospital chair for the first time in days. Darcy was making Emily lunch in the kitchen when she asked.

            Steve shook his head. “I’m not sure your dad would want me to tell you.”

            “I’m not a child,” Emily said softly.

            Steve looked sadly at her. “I know. But it’s—he should be here for it.”

            “Might be easier if he isn’t, Steve,” Darcy told him gently, touching his shoulder as she set a plate of chicken on rice and beans and salad in front of Emily. Steve looked away from her fingers on his shirt.

            “What do you remember, Emily?” Steve’s question was asked reluctantly but Emily was desperate to know why her father looked sad and walked around her on eggshells.

            She shakes her head. “Not much. I remember I walked out of the building to go get something…”

            “Coffee.” Darcy said from the sink. “You were getting you and I coffee. From Starbucks. You took the shortcut through the alley.”

            “Someone attacked you there and held you for ransom.” Steve too danced around something. She could hear it in his voice.

            Emily lifted her eyes from her plate. “What was the ransom? What’d he have to pay to get me back?”

            Steve looked at Darcy who looked at her, and then at him, and swallowed hard. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the backs of her hands. Darcy took a shuddering breath and whispered, “Natasha.”

            Time stopped. Emily inhaled slowly. She heard wrong. “What?”

            “They knew. How to find you. They hacked Jem’s cellphone. And they had Natasha already. The person who took you both held a grudge against your dad. He made him pick which one of you came back.”

            “Enough,” Clint appeared in the doorway looking pale and tired. He deliberately avoided Emily’s eyes. She watched him, horrified, as he walked across the kitchen, took a mug from the cabinet and poured himself a cup of coffee. _Natasha. He chose me over Natasha._ It shouldn’t feel as horrible as it did, that he had chosen her, and it shouldn’t surprise her. But here he was, moving around the kitchen, and she couldn’t reach him. She didn’t want to reach him. She was the reason Natasha wasn’t here. She was the reason Natasha wouldn’t come home. She was the reason her father would never be happy again.

            She pushed back her chair from the table and rose shakily.

            Clint said quietly, “Emily, please stay.”

            She moved towards the door.

            “Emily.”

            She said, surprised by the tears, “I’m sorry.”

            “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

            “Is she really gone?” Emily whispered, turning around to face him. He set his coffee down. He looked older, suddenly. Older and frail and tired and beaten down. He still met her eyes. He had told her if they knew who she was and how they were related, they’d use her against him. She didn’t know if this was his worst nightmare, or if she was his worst nightmare.

            Clint rubbed his hand over his face. “We don’t have confirmation yet but she hasn’t made a single check in since the incident.”

            “What’s confirmation?”

            Clint opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed hard. His eyes were bright. He leaned on the counter and finally, it was Steve who said quietly, “A body.”

            Emily held onto the door so she wouldn’t fall down. “Is there a chance she isn’t dead?”

            Steve looked at Clint and then at Darcy. He couldn’t meet Emily’s eyes. “I don’t think so, Emily.”

            “I’ve done terrible things, Emily,” Clint interrupted abruptly. “You know this. The man who kidnapped you and Natasha is someone with whom I had run ins before. He was responsible for kidnapping Natasha before and I took his wife and his daughter hostage. I made him choose who lived and who died. That’s why he did what he did. If anyone is at fault for what happened four days ago, it is me.”

            Emily couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She wanted to disappear but nothing could make her disappear. It hurt, how much he blamed himself, when this was clearly her fault. She wanted to scream at him that he didn’t have a monopoly on the guilt. If he had a monopoly on the guilt, who was to say he didn’t have a monopoly on the grief? Emily didn’t say anything as Clint picked up his coffee and left the room without another word. Everything slammed around at her, clamoring to be the loudest emotion. Anger and guilt and grief drained her. She couldn’t stand anymore and she barely remembered Darcy helping her to her room and tucking her into bed.

            She dreamt of needles in her neck, her father calling Jem, and gunshots. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not over yet!
> 
> (Sorry for a weaker chapter. Thanks for reading!)


	11. Break the Spell

 

            The nights were quiet and that was what hurt the most: waking up alone. He expected her still and woke slowly and carefully, opening his eyes at the last possible moment. He could almost imagine her laying next to him, her red curls everywhere, her mouth slack with sleep, one hand curled under her cheek and another in the space between him like she was reaching for him. But when his eyes opened, the dream was gone. She was gone. When she had been on mission, but alive, it hadn’t been impossible to sleep and wake. In the wake of the black screens and the sound of a single gunshot that pounded relentlessly in his head, Clint found it harder and harder to drag himself from bed now that they were back in the Avenger Tower. Three days after Emily came home from the hospital was one week from the kidnapping and the first time Clint sat on the floor of his shower with a gun in his hand.

            He left the shower, put the gun in a drawer beside his bed, and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. The worse part was not regretting his choice. Emily’s safety—her _existence_ —would always come down to Clint and the decisions he made in his life. She was shaken by her experience. Darcy recommended a therapist downtown and Clint made her take a car there and a car back. She went yesterday and she left this morning. She avoided Clint, which hurt, but he understood and he couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t grateful for the space she gave him.

            Not regretting his choice didn’t mean his grief wasn’t wider and deeper and darker than all of space.

            He hadn’t shaved in a week too. He remembered after one mission, Natasha, who couldn’t stand after burning the bottoms of her feet pretty badly, sat in the bathtub of their safe house and shaved her legs. He asked her why and she had told him calmly that it made her feel better, that she could conquer anything if she was ready to leave at a moment’s notice, even injured. Clint dragged himself off the bed and into his bathroom again, this time without the gun, and shaved in that spirit. It was almost annoying that it did make him feel better. He wished she was there for him to be snarky at, just to see that smug small smile that broke across her face and made her eyes dance.

            In the kitchen, they quieted when he came in. He found bread and threw two pieces in the toaster.

            Jane said softly, “You have to eat more than that, Clint.”

            “I’m fine,” he answered automatically. He hated that line. No one who ever said it ever meant it.

            “Tony’s on his way home.” Steve filled in the awkward pause that followed. “He did a SHIELD errand in Prague on his way. He left a few sensors at the safe house. We’ll get alarms here if anything changes.”

            “What would change?” asked Darcy, sounding hoarse.

            “If the girl Natasha gave the coordinates too gave away the safe house’s location. We don’t know what was done to them after Natasha was taken.” Clint buttered the toast and took a bite. It tasted like ash on his tongue. His stomach rolled. He hadn’t eaten properly in a week. Everything he did felt mechanical.

            “What are you doing today?” asked Steve gently.

            Clint shrugged. Steve cleared his throat. “It’s been a month since you were at SHIELD. Fury contacted me to ask if--..”

            “I’m a big boy. If Fury has something to say to me, he can call me himself.” Clint tossed the second piece of toast into the trash.

            “He said he did and you haven’t returned his calls.”

            Clint paused and turned around. Jane, Darcy, and Steve sat quietly at the table. They all looked pale and drawn. They had all lost someone last week. He was not the only one who missed her. They all missed her in their own way. Clint ran a hand through his messy hair. “How’s Tony?”

            Steve and Darcy exchanged a look. Steve swallowed hard. “Blames himself.”

            Clint pressed his lips together against a string of curses and exhaled through his nose. He spoke carefully. “When’s he due back today?”

            Steve checked his watch. “Oh six hundred.”

            Six hours. Six hours to figure out how to start comforting those around him. Six hours to figure out how to pull himself out of his own abyss.

            Clint nodded. “I’m going to go for a run. My cell’s on me if Emily needs me.”

            Jane and Darcy looked relieved. Steve looked anxious. “Want company?”

            “No, thanks.” Clint tried for a smile. “I’d rather be alone.”

            “You’ll call,” Darcy told him, “if it gets too hard and you need one of us to come get you.”

            It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t about running. It was kindness he probably didn’t deserve and most of him didn’t want it, but he walked over and mussed up her hair like he used to do to Emily and thanked her.

 It didn’t take long for him to change and hit the pavement outside. He hated running in the city. He did it with Natasha because their jobs required them to be fit but he always ran to Central Park and ran there because the illusion of fresh air kept his mind sharp. Now, he ran the city. He ran between buildings and where the sounds were of horns and brakes and shouting people. He deserved it. He deserved the stink and the polluted puddles. He deserved to be yelled at, to waste time weaving through a crowd, to get almost hit by a half dozen cards. He deserved all that was ugly about the world.

He ran six miles to the bridge, and then turned, and ran six miles back. No one saw him come into the Tower. He took a second shower and this one felt better than the first. The run helped. Another thing Natasha had been right about. Another thing he wouldn’t be able to tell her she was right about.

His cell went off. He picked it up. “Barton.”

“You need to come back immediately and to the Situation Room. We have,” Steve paused. “A situation.”

Clint yanked on a pair of pants. “I’m in my rooms. I’ll be down in a minute. Emily?”

“Here, safe. Standing next to me. We’re all here. Pepper’s on her way. Her helicopter’s about to land on the roof.”

“I’ll be there.” Clint hung up and tossed his phone on the bed. He yanked a shirt over his head and ran down to the room he and Steve insisted Tony put into the Tower if the Avengers were to stay here and use it as their operating station. Normally he took the stairs, but he took the elevator this time. It was faster.

He entered the room and saw the camera from inside Tony’s helmet up on the big screen. Tony looked anxious and tired. Clint stepped next to Steve. “What’s going on?”

“Tony, he’s here.”

“Barton, you sitting down for this?”

 _They found a body._ Clint shook his head and his voice caught. “If—if you’re asking me to ID a body, Stark, please—I can’t—“

The camera switched around so they could see what Tony saw. In the living room of the safe house outside Volgograd, where he and Natasha had spent many a mission patching each other up, were a dozen girls of varying ages and in various conditions. Some had burns and broken limbs. Some were wrapped in blankets. One sat on a couch, her arms wrapped haphazardly with strips of cloth to stick in makeshift splints, her hair covered with a cloth. She looked up.

Clint’s heart stopped.

He whispered her name.

Tony said quietly, “Natasha, I’ve got Clint here.”

Her eyes filled with tears and Clint walked towards the screen, slowly, too slowly, reaching up his hand. He touched the hologram and his fingers brushed through her face, tear streaked and thin.

She said. “Emily?”

Tony said quietly, “She’s safe. She’s there with Clint. Now will you let me make arrangements to evac you and these girls?”

Natasha’s nod was so small, so painfully small. Clint felt shattered. He was shaking. He said harshly, “Stark, if this is a joke—“

“It’s not a joke. It’s her, Barton. She got twelve of the girls out. We need to get them out of here before we’re made at this house. There’s not enough food here for them all and all of them have major medical issues. Natasha’s arms are both shattered and her injuries are not the worst. What can you do?”

Clint slipped into mission mode. “Give me an hour and I’ll have answers for you.”

“Copy that.” The camera switched back to Tony and then turned off.

Clint didn’t turn away from the place where Natasha’s face had just been. “I need Fury on the line now.”

Ten minutes later, Fury’s face was on the screen. “Barton. You decided to remember who pays you to do a job.”

“Natasha didn’t defect.” Clint told him calmly. “In fifteen seconds, you’ll have an email from Jarvis with all of the information of the mission she went on. She wasn’t expected to survive. Drakov found out though and kidnapped her and my daughter. Jarvis can also send you the information confirming that Emily Neal is my daughter. He put guns to their heads and told me to chose.”

“Like you did with his wife and daughter,” Fury’s eyes moved from the camera to the computer screen where he read the information. “This was personal.”

“Yes. Natasha found a way to destroy the Red Room. I’m not yet sure if she’s successful but as of a week ago, when I made the decision to save Emily, we thought she was dead. Tony’s just located her at a safe house Natasha and I maintained outside Volgograd. She’s got a dozen or more former Red Room girls with her. All have major medical needs.”

“You’re asking SHIELD to step in and take over a mission you fucked up.” Fury said, but he was hitting keys on the screen.

“I’m asking SHIELD to take control to prevent these girls falling into the wrong hands. I doubt the Red Room is the only one who is after them. We know how to deprogram them and a dozen agents like Natasha would be worth SHIELD’s investment.”

“In exchange, you want us to call off the mark on Natasha and treat her as well.”

“And give me full access to her. None of that bullshit where you won’t let me in the operating room.”

“It’s a sterile space.”

“You know what I mean, sir. They shattered both of her arms and I’m not sure if that’s the extent of her injuries. I’ve only seen footage of her.”

“And what do I get, Agent Barton?”

“We talked awhile ago about a job you needed done. I’ll take it.”

Fury’s eyebrows lifted. “You will.”

Clint nodded. “When she is fully recovered, I’ll do the job.”

Fury said, “You shouldn’t have done that on this channel.”

“I trust that you can wipe this conversation.”

“Your trust is well placed. Send me the coordinates for the safe house. We can have an ex fil team there in two hours from a base nearby. Stark should remain with them until they arrive. The receiving code reply will be Blue Tiger. They’ll be dressed in SHIELD uniform.”

“Ten four.”

Clint hung up. He stared at the screen. “She’s alive.”

“I’ll call Tony,” Steve said quickly. “Relay that information.”

Emily walked down next to her father and touched his elbow. “What’s the mission you agreed to take to get her home?”

“Can’t tell you,” he admitted after a pause. He gave her a sidelong look. “You okay.”

Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “Was it really her?”

“Yes.” Clint slung an arm around her shoulder. Emotions began to churn inside him, deep in his gut, rising from where he shoved them to call Fury. He thought he might cry. “It was her.”

“It didn’t look like her.” Emily wrapped her arms around him. “What’d they do to her?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out.” _But she’s coming home._

 


	12. A Soft Place to Land

            It was another day before Natasha and the Red Room girls were home. By home, they were in a SHIELD hospital wing. They took up most of it. Each girl was given her own room, ostensibly for safety but Emily saw that their doors didn’t open from the inside and figured that was for everyone’s safety. The girls mostly lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Emily didn’t think anything would stop her father from reaching Natasha, but he slowed and stopped at one of the younger girl’s rooms. He asked an orderly to be let in.

            Clint looked over his shoulder and said, “Em, do you mind coming in? She’ll find me less scary if you’re with me.”

            Emily followed her father hesitantly. She was afraid. Seven year old assassins were not something that she had a lot of experience with and she knew what Natasha could do and survive now. But when they entered the room, she saw why her father had picked this girl. She was crying. Emily hung back while Clint approached her, quietly, speaking in low Russian.

            The girl shook her head and screamed, kicking out her feet at him. Emily saw her father’s face flash with pain. He shook his head, pressed a hand to his chest, and repeated something in Russian. He gestured to Emily and said something else. The girl was small with dark brown hair in tangled girls. Her eyes were incredibly dark and her skin a touch tan. She looked nothing like Natasha, except for the wariness in her eyes. She wiped at her face with the back of her hands.

            Clint said something softly to her and she nodded, slowly. He reached into his pocket and Emily gritted her teeth when the girl flinched. What did she expect from him? Clint pulled his hand free and uncurled his fingers, holding out on his palm a piece of candy. The girl stared at him, and then looked to Emily. Emily smiled and nodded, slowly and unsure, but the girl relaxed a fraction. She reached forward and snatched the candy off Clint’s hand and leaned back as if she were waiting to be struck. Clint just said something else to her and backed away. They knocked at the door and the orderly let them out.

            In the hall, Emily exhaled slowly. “What’d you tell her?”

            “That she was safe now. She doesn’t believe me. They won’t for awhile.” Clint paused and said quietly, “I’ve done this twice with Natasha. It’s so much worse to see it in a child.”

            He slung his arm around her shoulder and they walked to the room at the end. The curtains were drawn over the room. There was no orderly. Clint knocked. A very familiar voice called for them to enter. Clint opened the door slowly and he and Emily stepped inside together.

            Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a cup with a straw in it. Natasha sat in a hospital gown. Her red hair was tied back messily and her face was thinner than Emily had ever seen it before. She had fading black eyes and a bandage around her upper left arm. Both of her lower arms were in dark blue casts from elbow to finger tips. Her eyes didn’t leave Clint’s and Clint didn’t move for a long time. Then Natasha said something shakily in a language that Emily didn’t recognize and lifted her arms helplessly in front of her.  Clint moved towards her, reaching out and catching her face in his hands. Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, who had more successful kills with SHIELD than everyone _but_ Hawkeye, burst into tears. She wrapped her casts around his waist and pressed her face into his stomach. Emily didn’t know when she herself started crying but she couldn’t stop the loud tears and sobs bursting from her. She covered her mouth and sank to the floor.

Clint was entirely silent. His fingers moved around Natasha’s body, running down her ribs, over her arms, and whatever his purpose was, perhaps he was trying to discern the extent of her injuries, he must have found it. He made a low quiet noise, animalistic and sad and desperate, and slid onto the bed, pulling her up and into his lap. He curled around her and their limbs became twisted, tangled in each other. She clung to him, or he clung to her, it was hard to tell. They morphed into one being, the only people who ever understood each other, and the intimacy sucked out the air in the room. Emily flushed behind her tears and diverted her eyes to Steve who was busying himself with adjusting the straw in Natasha’s cup. He met her eyes and gave her a weak smile.

Emily slipped back out of the room. It was Natasha. That was all she needed to know. She didn’t expect all the guilt living inside of her to lift but much of it did. Outside of Natasha’s hospital room, she exhaled slowly. Darcy walked down the hall and handed her a warm cup. Emily sipped at the tea and sighed with relief.

Darcy gave her a tight smile. “Thought you might need that. How is she?”

“Looks like shit.”

“How’s he?”

Emily paused and shrugged. “I don’t think he thought was real til about thirty seconds ago.”

Darcy nodded and looked at the door. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

Emily swallowed. “I know. I know what happened with Jem.”

Darcy’s eyes flashed to her. “What? How’d you know?”

“Steve said they hacked Jem’s phone but I guess Dad talked to Jem. Jem said something at a bar when he was drunk. They had their suspicions about him and I and who I was. Just confirmed it. So they targeted him.”

Darcy reached out and touched Emily’s hand. “How are you?”

“Pissed. Sad. Guilt-ridden. A hundred things. Tired.”

“How’s school?”

“I go back tomorrow.” Emily gestured to the room. “Not sure how, actually. I don’t even know how to handle any of this.”

“Can I tell you something I’ve learned?” Darcy asked gently. Emily nodded so Darcy took a deep breath. “You don’t learn to handle it. It’s not handleable. Not for you and me and Jane, people that aren’t Tony and Bruce and your dad and Tasha. Even Steve has a harder time than that. You can’t handle it so you let it go. You accept that things happen.”

“Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror, just keep going. No feeling is final,” quoted Emily with a ghost of a smile.

“Who said that?” Darcy looked interested.

“Rilke. But my dad likes to quote it.”

Darcy smiled sadly and gestured to the closed door. “I imagine that quote has gotten him through all these years with Natasha, hasn’t it?”

Emily hadn’t thought of it that way, but now she did. She took another sip of the tea and said, “Can we walk?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

It was the first time in a week Emily didn’t feel alone or lonely. 


	13. I Need My Girl

            She needed his help to do everything. On a list of things Natasha hated in life, it was asking for help. She stayed in his rooms. No one said anything and no one even assumed differently. She couldn’t brush her teeth by herself much less get dressed, brush her hair, or do anything. Her arms had been shattered under concrete blocks, stacked one by one, on them while they tortured her. She had six pins in each arm and a metal bar in her left one. She wore casts from elbow to finger tips and she hated them. The first days, at the hospital, Clint let the orderlies help her and walked around her on eggshells, but the first morning at the Tower, he sat, laughing, on the bathroom sink, tears in his eyes from joy instead of loneliness. She stood between his legs, scowling at him, her casts resting on his thighs. He grinned at her and the toothpaste running down the corner of her mouth.

            “When these things come off,” she threatened and pressed her fingers into his thighs.

Clint lifted the toothbrush to her mouth. “Let me try again.”

“I’ll let my teeth rot out.” She shook her head.

Using his thumb, he brushed the toothpaste off her chin. He had been, for a brief moment, tempted to kiss it away, but it wasn’t her forehead. It was next to her mouth, and that he couldn’t do as much as he wanted to, especially with her standing between his legs, hands on his thighs, trying to look pissed off at him. She softened when he touched her and sank into him. She was easier to touch these days and Clint was afraid that it came from horrors, or that it would go away. He couldn’t decide which was worse. When his hand fell away from her mouth, she pressed against him, her face to his chest, her casts at his back.

He kissed the top of her head. “You slept well.”

“They have me on sleep medicine,” she grumbled, her voice low and warm against him.

“And you’re taking it,” he replied gently. “I’m glad.”

To his surprise, she nodded slowly. “I want to sleep. I didn’t much, over there. Hurt too much.”

He ran his hands down her bare arms to her casts. He couldn’t miss the way she shivered. It took effort to keep his voice steady. “You have all the time in the world to sleep. You could go back to sleep if you wanted.”

“You would never leave this room.”

Clint frowned and said slowly, “If you wanted me to leave, Natasha, you know you just say the word.”

“Somehow I doubt you’d leave if I asked you to.”

He stiffened. “Are you asking?”

She lifted her head. Her blue eyes were pained and sincere. “That came out wrong. I don’t think you would leave, but I don’t want you to leave. Please.”

“I have official permission to shirk my duties until you are declared fit for action again.” He ran his finger along the healing laceration on her left arm. “So I’m here if you want me to be, and I’m gone if you want me to be.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

She never asked him those questions. They weren’t allowed because deep down, both of them knew that he would always want more than she was capable of giving. To save them both the heartache, they danced around things like wants and needs and settled for what they knew they had: each other, in the whatever form the other was offered. A perfect storm of keeping each other in limbo for a decade now. It felt dangerous now, situated as they were. She, reliant on him for her basic needs. He, pathetically desperately happy at her return. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to tell her things that he should have said years ago but didn’t in keeping with their unspoken rules, with her boundaries that she set and he respected. It felt more like taking advantage now than it ever had before.

So it was cautiously that he lifted his hand back to her face, cupped it and ran his thumb along her bottom lip. Her eyes widened and darkened. He studied her and said softly, “I have what I want.”

She swallowed audibly. “Not what I asked. Do you want to be here or no?”

He laughed a bit. “You sound more like yourself now. I want to be here, Natasha. I always want to be here. There’s never anywhere I’d rather be than here.”

“For how long?”

She had never asked him how long he had loved her. He stilled, his thumb resting against her lip. Their eyes never left each other’s. He said, carefully picking his words, “For a long time. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know if it should or not,” she admitted with definite frustration. “I don’t know any of this.”

His heart leapt and plummeted. “Natasha.”

She bit her lip. “Clint.”

He ran his thumb across her lip again, brushing against her teeth. She closed her eyes. He said softly, “It only changes if you want it to. I meant it when I said I have what I want. Don’t---go easy on yourself, okay?”

“I’ve never known how to go easy on myself.” It was the closest thing to admitting her own tendency towards self destruction as he ever heard from her. He didn’t know what to say to it until she opened her eyes and said, “I still need to brush my teeth.”

He grinned at her and dropped his hand from her face. “I’ll try not to laugh at you while I help.”

“I’ll spit toothpaste at you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t dare me.”

“I don’t dare you. I remember what happened in Tripoli.”

“All your fault.”

“And I paid dearly. Open up, kitten.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“You won’t. _Fuck!_ Natasha!”

“Told you I would.”

“Woman…”

It exhausted her, the mere process of getting ready for the day, and by the time she got downstairs to the kitchen, Natasha was frustrated. She could almost hold a spoon, but not with any weight in it. At Clint’s head nod, the rest of the team vacated the kitchen so he could feed his surly growling partner in peace. She was on a high calorie diet to try and gain back some of the weight she lost in the month she was away. At the hospital, they quickly realized that it was easier to put all of her calories into smoothies, stick a straw in it, and leave her alone. Clint sat the smoothie in front of her and drank his own coffee.

She put her head down on the table, resting it against her casts and closing her eyes halfway through the smoothie. She muttered, “Exhausted. I can’t remember being this exhausted ever.”

“That was an ordeal,” he reminds her. “Finish your smoothie.”

“I just need a break.”

“I know. Finish your smoothie.”

“I couldn’t let you and I get involved, physically, before, because that mission was always coming. I was always going to leave you to end the Red Room and I couldn’t, I didn’t think I could, if I ever let down that final gate. I was afraid I’d resent you for how I felt and you being the reason I couldn’t leave. You understand, right?” The words tumbled from her mouth in leaps and gasps, her eyes pressed shut so hard lines curled around the edges of them and her face paled. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Clint stared at her. How could he not? His mind could barely wrap itself around her words and quash the surge of unexpected hope and love in his chest. He cleared his throat. “Nat, you know that I’m okay with what we have.”

“Are you?” She lifted her head and opened teary eyes at him. “Maybe you shouldn’t be.”

“You’re policing my feelings then?” He gave her a wry smile and hoped she knew he was just teasing her because he didn’t know what else to say.

Her eyes moved around his head, anywhere but his eyes. The motion was unusual for her and it unnerved him. Her voice was soft. “What if --- what if it could be different now?”

He sucked in a breath so loud and hard she must have heard it but she didn’t laugh at him or make a face. He let it out slowly. _Natasha._ “Don’t say this because you think you owe me anything. You don’t. You’ve never owed me a damn thing.”

Her eyes focused on him now. “This isn’t about my ledger or gratitude or debts.”

He couldn’t read her. “Then I’d say the ball’s in your court.”

“I’ve never understood that metaphor.”

“I’ll take you to a basketball game.”

“So it is my move then?”

“Yes.” He didn’t add, _it’s always been._ But maybe he had never been clear enough. Maybe because he had never made a move, she had thought he wasn’t as interested. Had they spent ten years cat and mousing each other?

She sat up again, brushed her hair off her face clumsily with her casts and stared frustrated at her smoothie. They sat in a long heavy silence and then Natasha slumped in her chair. She lifted her casts and let both fall to her lap, wincing. Clint reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the ends of hers exposed from the casts. She curled her fingers around him and tugged slightly.

As she exhaled a shaky breath, he said quietly, “We’ve figured a lot of complicated shit out together, Natashka. We’ll figure this out too.”

She didn’t let go of his fingers for the rest of breakfast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there, kids. Don't worry ;) Three more chapters to go, I *think*.


	14. Flawless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: Flawless by The National
> 
> Trying to get back in the groove of this story so forgive me if the chapter's a little wonky! :) Thank you for reading and for your patience while I took the summer off from fanfic and focused on my other writing (and you know. life? that thing? oh no, wait, not that. Clintasha IS life.)

            Emily barely saw her father and honestly, that was fine by her. She was back in class when she wasn’t at her own apartment, and when she was at her own apartment, she wasn’t sleeping so she tried to do as much homework as she possibly could manage. Tony had kindly suggested she take a break from work and she didn’t mind that either. She thought it was unlikely that she return to work. She doubted her father would let her after she fucked up that badly by telling Jem. She figured he just was too busy taking care of Natasha to tell her that she was fired. Jem was a whole other issue. He had called a dozen times and she deleted his texts and voicemails without listening to them or reading them. The emails, also. She hadn’t been on Facebook since before the kidnapping. She didn’t want to talk to him even though it was her fault, her fault that she told him what was going on.

            She had wanted to trust him. What a mistake that was. Now her father wasn’t speaking to her because she had forced him to make a decision between her and the only person she had ever known him to love. How could he want to look at her? Her therapist told her that she was assuming guilt that she did not know existed. Her therapist wanted Clint to come in for a visit, but Emily nixed the idea. She didn’t want her dad to know that she still couldn’t sleep and still had nightmares. He would think her weak. She was Hawkeye’s daughter. She should be braver than crying because she was in the dark, or because someone made a noise outside her window, or because a door slammed, or because a car alarm went off, or because of a thousand other things that happened that triggered her.

            Her insurance forms said PTSD now. She had something that war veterans got. She didn’t even have the right to that. It took them less than forty eight hours to kidnap her, threaten her, and return her. People spent years in theatre, fighting insurgents, getting shit blown up around them, not sleeping at night, seeing their best friends die. Those people deserved to have the diagnosis and the assistance of that label, the doors and therapies it opened up through insurance accessibility. She didn’t deserve it.

            She was working on a paper in the library when her phone rang. Other students shot her nasty looks that made her tremble but she hesitantly answered it, gathering her books into her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “Hello?”

            “Emily.” Her dad’s voice, relieved and clear. “I wasn’t sure you were going to answer.”

            If she had looked at the caller ID instead of being preoccupied by interrupting her fellow students, she wouldn’t have. She ducked her head and walked out of the library. “Hi.”

            “Hi,” he said gently. “Spring break is next week, right?”

            “Yes. But I have a lot of work to catch up on because of…” she trailed off and heaved the bag higher on her shoulder. “I really have a lot to do.”

            “You’re caught up on all your assignments. You’re making good grades. I checked.” She was about to say something about boundaries when he cut her off with a gentle, “It’s one of the side effects of having a spy for a dad. Along with being kidnapped, sharing him with his partner, and never understanding the world.”

            She stopped at the street corner. He was leaning against a light post, dressed casually in a red t-shirt, jeans, and sunglasses. He looked nothing like a spy there, except for the part where he knew her walk home from the library. She hung up the phone and slipped it into her butt pocket, crossing her arms as she walked toward him. When she reached him, she shaded her eyes and peered at him. He looked apprehensive but…Emily was shocked to say she’d reach for the word _good_ to describe him. Something was different in his face.

            He pulled the sunglasses off his face and squinted at her. “Hey.”

            Emily looked around. “Aren’t you not supposed to be seen with me in public or something?”

            If she didn’t know him pretty well, she would have said he flinched. He shrugged a bit and said, “Everyone who matters knows you are my daughter now.”

            She wasn’t sure what to say about that. She gestured to the sidewalk. “You just happen to be in this part of town?”

            “Emmy,” he said softly. She bit back the tears forming in her throat. He sighed and said, “Can I walk you home?”

            She adjusted her bag. “Sure.”

            They began to walk down the street. Clint slid his hands into his back pocket, studying the sidewalk with such determined focus that Emily started to believe the headache he was surely getting was contagious. They turned down her street and reached the building where she lived. Emily looked at him when they stopped outside, the doorman looking at them curiously.

            “Emily,” he said quietly, “I know, when she came home, that I disappeared.”

            “Dad, I get it,” Emily began to tell him, brushing off his words.

            “No, you don’t.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was getting messy and a little long. He looked at her, his grey eyes, so like her own, sad and tired. He gave her a weak smile. “I don’t do this well. I’ve never done this well, you know. I do my best and hope for the best and I let you down. I let you get hurt and then I slipped into my own headspace for awhile and then she came back and I had to take care of her.”

            He wasn’t naming Natasha. Emily thought that was strange, but guessed both of them knew who she was talking about. Emily looked at the door a few steps away. “Dad, it’s fine. I get it. You didn’t let me down.”

            “I know Natasha better than I know you,” he said abruptly, shuffling a foot. “It’s a consequence of my life. I’ve spent more time with her than with you. I know her tells and when she’s lying to me and what she needs. And I know it instinctively. I don’t know yours. And I wish I did. I can’t make the last twenty one years any easier. I can’t rewind time and know you better and be there for your first words and your first steps and your first boyfriend. I can’t undo what was done to you a few weeks ago, even though it was done to get at me. I can’t take that back and I don’t know how to really—goddammit, I’m really bad at words—I don’t know how to even tell you how much that upsets me. So sometimes, Emmy, it’s easier to take care of Natasha who is about to lose her mind because of how helpless she is than to take care of you because you aren’t helpless and you’re hurting at the same time. That’s a hard place to be.”

            She had never heard him say this much at once before. Her heart slammed around in her chest, aching to find something to say back. She could only whisper, “Dad.”

            “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I’m sorry I fucked up,” he said quietly, lifting his eyes again to hers. “If you’re game, I’d like to spend some time next week with you.”

            Now the tears did come. She stepped close to him, and then took another half step, letting him close the distance between them and wrap his arms around her. She held onto him, crying into his shoulder. He stroked her hair and murmured _shhhh_ to her but she couldn’t stop crying for a few minutes. When she was just red-eyed and laughing through her tears, she stepped away, brushing her cheeks with her hands. Clint watched her worriedly. He was bad at this, Emily realized. Her whole life, her father was more like an older brother than a dad. He didn’t know what to do, and she didn’t know what she needed him to do because both of her parents had bombed out on parenthood. And she really didn’t know what she needed now.

            “Yeah,” Emily said finally. “That’d be really nice.”

            Clint’s eyes brightened. “Yeah?”

            She smiled and nodded. “Yeah. What are you thinking?”

            He shrugged. “Whatever you want to do.”

            Emily swallowed. “I’ve never been to the Met.”

            The corners of Clint’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Alright. We’ll start with the Met.”

            She blinked. “What? Wait, start with?”

            “Put on your walking shoes on Monday, kiddo. We’re going to do all the museums.” His grin grew wider and wider.

            She stared at him. “Dad. This is New York. There are like seven thousand museums.”

            “You’re right,” he looked thoughtful. “I’ll bring coffee.”

            “You’re crazy,” she informed him.

            He smiled. “It’s genetic, Emmy. Monday.”

            “Monday,” she repeated, still reeling from him standing there.

            He hugged her again, kissed her forehead, and said goodbye. And as strangely as he arrived, he disappeared.

            Emily shook her head and went into her building. For the first time, though, she didn’t jump when the elevator dinged and someone else got on with her, riding up to the sixteenth floor. She even smiled at them before she got off, keys in hand. Maybe it would all be okay.

            On Monday, he texted her and asked her to meet him at the Tower. She hadn’t been back since Natasha was released from the hospital. She chewed her lip anxiously as she rode the elevator up to their floors. She stepped out into the kitchen, her skin crawling with anxiety and her heart in her throat. Natasha was at the table, her left arm in a splint and her right still in a cast. She was laughing at some story that Tony was telling in a particularly animated fashion. Emily hadn’t seen Natasha since she was in the hospital and the difference was shocking. Natasha had gained back her lost weight. Her face was full and glowing, her eyes bright. Her hair was long and untangled, flowing around her shoulders. She looked relaxed and easy.

            _They tortured her. How can she be fine when I’m having nightmares?_ Emily swallowed and shuffled her foot slightly. Natasha startled and looked at her, her face moving swiftly from amused to anxious. She studied Emily with a sudden intensity that made Emily nervous.

            “Hi, Emily,” Natasha said softly. “How are you?”

            “Fine,” Emily answered automatically. She fiddled with the straps of her purse. “I thought my dad said to meet him here. I guess—“

            “He’ll be right down. He just ran up for something,” Natasha said quickly. “Do you want anything? Tony, make something for Emily.”

            “You realize that you can only boss me around because I think you can kill me with the casts, right?” Tony grumbled and then gave Emily a genuine smile. “Hey, Hawkling. What would you like?”

            “I’m really fine,” Emily said quickly. She shifted slightly. “But thanks.”

            Natasha looked troubled. She absentmindedly itched her arm, her eyes never leaving Emily. Emily realized, gratefully, that Tony had new art hung up in the kitchen. She wandered around looking at it, at the peaches and apples with rocket ships and rovers on them like they were planets and moons. The entire time, she was distinctly aware of Natasha’s eyes watching her. Ten years she had known Natasha and she never felt as uncomfortable in her presence as she did now. She had walked into her dad’s room and found Natasha asleep curled up under his arm and not felt as embarrassed as she did right then.

            “Em?” Her dad’s voice right behind her.

            She spun and smiled at him brightly. “Hey! Ready?”

            He held up his Met membership card. “Had to find this. Ready.” He turned around and pointed at Tony. “My phone is for emergencies only.”

            Tony nodded and waved at him. “I know. Father daughter mending the bond time. I got it.”

            “No, really. Emergencies are,” Clint made a face and then shrugged, gesturing to Natasha. “Emily’s with me, so basically an emergency is only if someone puts another gun to her head.”

            Emily flinched, her stomach knotting itself. Natasha’s eyes flickered from Clint to Emily. The redhead woman said quietly, “Clint. I’ll be fine. Go on.”

            “I know you’ll be fine,” Clint said, but he didn’t sound so sure. Emily wondered really how hard it was for him to leave her right now. He looked disconcerted. Then he walked over to her, his strides short and determined. He smoothed her hair back in a practiced move and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Natasha’s eyes fluttered closed and she almost pressed herself back into Clint’s touch, surprising Emily. She was used to seeing her dad chastely kiss Natasha. Natasha wanting it was an entirely different story. She raised her eyebrows at Natasha and Clint.

            “Okay,” said Clint gruffly. “We’re going. Come on, Em.”

            They rode the elevator down in near silence but as they were walking out the lobby doors, Emily said suddenly, “If anything changes between you and Natasha, you’ll tell me, right?”

            Clint’s steps faltered and he looked at her with caution in his eyes. “Of course I will. What makes you think things have changed?”

            Emily shrugged a bit. Clint hailed a cab. As they got in, Emily explained. “Something in her face. It was different today. That’s all.”

            Clint looked out the window as the cab pulled away from the curb. He ran his hand over the scruffy beard he was growing. “A few days ago, she suggested things change but she’s…she’s pretty fragile right now.”

            “That’s big, Dad,” Emily said softly, feeling her heart fill for the first time in weeks. “You’ve waited a long time for that.”

            For a long moment, she thought he’d deny it. Instead, he was quiet for a bit, and then he looked sideways at her and smiled, a hopeful bright smile. “Yeah. I have. Thanks, kiddo.”

            They walked around the Met together, pointing out their favorites and discussing the art pieces they disagreed on. They got food in the food court and meandered through the gorgeous warm spring day. They talked about Emily’s classes, about her course schedule for the fall, about the internship she had applied for over winter break and gotten with a nonprofit in Harlem. They talked about everything except what happened and his job, and for that, Emily was incredibly grateful. She began to feel a little steadier. She told him about how difficult her living situation was and he immediately suggested that she and the roommate she got along with find a place to live closer to campus. They argued about who would pay for that. He dismissed her concerns and insisted on footing the bill. So they spent an hour in Starbucks together, going over apartment listings on their phones and drinking coffee.

            Late in the afternoon, Clint leaned back in his chair and said quietly, “Can I give you some advice, Emily?”

            “Of course,” she said, putting down her phone and looking up at him.

            “Know that the nightmares will go away.” His eyes were intent and focused. “And that you should have nightmares. That’s your mind processing what happened and how to protect you next time.”

            “I---,” Emily began to protest, and then she slumped in her chair, wrapping both hands around her cup. “I’m scared. All the time.”

            “I know,” he murmured. He reached over and touched the back of her hand with calloused fingertips. “Natasha’s are pretty bad right now too.”

            Emily looked up and frowned. “She looked the happiest I’ve ever seen her today.”

            “She’s incredibly good at faking it,” he replied dryly. “It’s her job. I don’t want you looking at her and thinking that you don’t have a right to feel whatever you’re feeling. You’re still going to the therapist, right?”

            Emily nodded just a tiny bit. “Yes.”

            “Good. And if you need anything, you can ask. Emily, you’re going to be okay.”

            She hadn’t known until right then how incredibly much she needed to hear those exact words. There were no promises of exactly what okay was or meant and he didn’t promise her a particular path. He didn’t ask her to trust him, and he didn’t give her any of the funny exercises her therapist did. He gave her only the reassurance and the quiet insistance that even when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, he was. That at least had not changed. She swallowed back her tears and nodded slowly. He didn’t say anything more on the subject for a few minutes.

            Then, while they were looking at pictures of an apartment in Brooklyn, he added quietly, offhandedly, “You usually forgive me when you’re mad at me right?”

            She lifted her head suddenly and stared at him. “Um, yes, but what?”

            Clint’s eyes went over her head and to someone behind her. “Remember, no matter how mad you are, that you’ll forgive me. Have a good evening, babygirl.”

            He rose slowly, and stepped out of the way. Into his seat, almost immediately, sat down Jem. His dark hair was cropped shorter than she remembered but his eyes were so blue and so deeply familiar that Emily’s mouth dropped open. She began to push away from the table but her father’s hand settled on her shoulder. “Let him speak, Em. If you still want him to leave, he’ll leave. But give him a chance.”

            Then the pressure on her shoulder lifted, and Clint disappeared. Jem sat, looking miserable, across from Emily. They stared at each other for a second, then Jem spoke as quickly as he could. “I know you don’t want to see me and I know you’re mad. God, you should be mad. I fucked up. I’ve never been more scared than when your dad called me to tell me you had been kidnapped because I’m a fucking moron.”

            “I told you,” Emily whispered.

            “But I should have been trustworthy. I broke the trust. I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to take me back but I’ve been worried about you and I wanted you to hear my apology in person. That’s all. I’ll go now.”

            But he didn’t move.

            Emily thought about Natasha faking it until she made it at the table, about her father’s apology a few days earlier, about her own guilt keeping her awake in the middle of the night. Jem, and his beautiful eyes and his kind heart, had also made a mistake. Just like Emily had. She closed her eyes and said, “Don’t…leave.”

            “ 


	15. This Tornado Loves You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big ol' Mature warning on this one. Things get...steamy? (FINALLY?) Feel free to skip if that's not your cup of tea.

 

            Balancing obligations was harder now in his forties than at any previous time in his life, thought Clint. Natasha still had one arm in a cast, the other in a splint, but required his help for almost everything that required a significant amount of dexterity. Emily was struggling, as she ought to be after her experience, and he should be taking care of her. Fury was less than patiently waiting for Clint to fulfill his half of the bargain that allowed SHIELD to save Natasha and the twelve Red Room girls after the Red Room was blown. And then there was his regular SHIELD jobs. Training, surveillance, monitoring, and the occasional hit. He felt like he was balancing the world. As Natasha grew stronger, he spent more time at the base, preparing for his mission for Fury and picking up the training again.

            He came home one afternoon sore and tired. The Tower seemed empty and quiet, almost haunted. He had grown used to someone being home all the time. It helped with his own nightmares he shoved into the back of his mind because he didn’t have time for them. He walked cautiously through the kitchen for a cup of coffee, resisting the urge to arm himself just to cross his own kitchen alone. There was a note on the counter, familiar printed words on yellow paper.

_Pepper and I went out. We’ll be back soon.  
You aren’t alone—Bruce is in his lab. _

_Love, Natasha_

            He exhaled slowly, folded up the note into a tiny square and tucked it into his pocket, warm and safe. He drank the coffee, black, a little stale, a little cold, in the elevator to his rooms. The bed was rumpled, a stray white tshirt thrown across it. Natasha had been here while he was out. His hands curled into fists at the urge to curl up in the spot where she slept and fall asleep himself. _Shower, Barton. You’re rank._ He dragged himself through the post training motions. Showered, cleaned a laceration from a well placed knife swipe by a trainee, tossed back a few thousand milligrams of ibuprofen, clean clothes. He stretched carefully, wincing. He was not as young as he used to be. He was not as agile as he used to be. A trainee making contact in an exercise was practically like signing his retirement forms.

            Clint didn’t like to think about retirement. Who was he if he wasn’t Hawkeye? No one. He was no one. He was just another kid from Iowa who grew up a little fucked up. _Stop._ He caught his mind spinning down that path. He had been down that path before. It didn’t hold anything good for him. He took out two of his bows—one of his old ones he rarely took out on missions anymore and one of the ones Tony designed for him—and went up to the nest Tony had built into his rooms. Hand over hand, feet on rung after rung, up into a tiny room, the size of a small bathroom, with a fantastic view of the city. He cleaned and tuned the bows, letting his mind fall into that consuming task.

            Footsteps, suddenly, below him. Cautious ones. He set down his bows and listened. A few steps, a turn, and then, “Clint?”

            Natasha. He closed his eyes against the bumbling feelings in his chest. “Up here, Tash.”

            He heard, no, felt her sigh of relief. She came to the base of the ladder and looked up at him. Her hair was pulled back, something he didn’t see often since she couldn’t do it with her casts and she hated the way he did her hair. Pepper must have done it. She was wearing makeup—again, different—and a dark blue shirt that set off her eyes. She crossed her cast and her splint across her chest and studied him, her brow furrowing.

            “I can’t come up,” she explained, kicking the rungs slightly.

            “Oh.” He slid the bows out of his lap and came down the ladder. His feet hit the ground and as he turned, she was already pressed against him, her cast rough against his skin as she slid her hands beneath his shirt. He closed his eyes and shuddered, folding his arms around her. He let himself sink against her until she was holding him more than he held her. He muttered into her hair, “You’re home.”

            Her fingers curled, warm and reassuring, against his chest. “What’s going on?”

            “Got my ass kicked by trainees today.” He felt her tense and start to pull away and he gripped her tight. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

            “Come,” she said anyway and pushed her hands against his chest until he was afraid she’d hurt her arms again and he reluctantly let her pull away from him. She kept her fingers around his though, pulling him toward the bed. She sat him down on the edge and her eyes ran over him with expert ease, the way they used to check each other after missions. She ran her fingers over a bruise over top of his eyebrow and he closed his eyes at the steadiness of her touch.

            “You’re a mess,” she said quietly.

            He smiled, keeping his eyes closed. “Says the woman with two broken arms.”

            She ran her fingers over his cheekbone. “How’s Emily?”

            “Seems to be a little better. I wish she had taken the semester off.” He wanted to pull Natasha against him again. He needed the security of her but he did not know how to say this, not right now, in this strange fragile thing between them. He reached out hesitantly, hands finding Natasha’s hips. He hooked his fingers through the loops of her jeans.

            “Yes, it’s like that doesn’t run in the family. The keep going even when you’re falling apart mechanism.” Clint opened his eyes at Natasha’s too dry tone. She gave him a weary smile, her eyes sad and worried. “Clint…”

            “I’m alright,” he reassured her, keeping his voice soft. “Bad day. But I’m alright.”

            “Liar, liar,” she mocked him gently, shaking her head. She sat down on the bed beside him, folding a leg beneath her and pulling her hands back to her lap. “You got clobbered—“

            He laughed suddenly. “I never hear your accent anymore and then you say a word like clobbered and it’s everywhere.”

            “ _Clobbered_ ,” she repeated, smiling a tiny bit, “at training and you’re worried they’re going to pull you out of training. And then what will you do?”

            The air was sucked out of the room. He couldn’t breathe. He tried, but failed. The edges of the room in his vision so well defined began to creep in on them. The one finger he still had hooked through her belt loop tightened until the denim cut into his callouses. Natasha kissed his cheek, resting her forehead against his temple, ran her fingers up and down his arm, whispered things he couldn’t hear right then.

            “What if,” he choked out, “What if they said I can’t go into the field anymore and I’m too slow to train them? I can’t do a desk job, Nat. I’ll die.”

            “You’re not too slow. You’re out of practice because you’ve had a shitty couple of months,” she whispered, her fingers playing on the back of his neck. “Clint, they’re not going to reassign you.”

            “They will one day.”

            Her fingers paused. “Maybe. Then you leave.”

            “And do what? What can I do? I can’t do anything. I’m only Hawkeye. That’s all I have.”

            She whispered, “That’s all you have?”

            He closed his eyes, finding her hand in the dark and gripping it. “It’s all I am.”

            “It’s not. It’s what you do. If you leave SHIELD--,”

            “Not if. When.”

            “When you leave SHIELD, you’ll still be Emily’s dad.” Clint sucked in a breath and let it stumble out of him, his shoulders slumping. Natasha scooted closer to him. “And you’ll still be my--,”

            She paused and Clint was too tired and stressed to censor anymore. He laughed a little bit, bitter and lost. “Still your what, Natasha? When I leave SHIELD, we won’t be partners anymore. Where does that leave us?”

            “I,” she faltered and Clint’s heart clenched. He turned toward her, opening his mouth to apologize for being callous, when she kissed him. For a long moment, Clint froze. He did not touch her or kiss her back. His mind completely shut down. Natasha pulled away, her lips parted, and in that moment, he saw a flash of something so vulnerable and desperate and full of want that he had never seen before on her face. She closed it off immediately and turned her face away, her fingers trembling against her bottom lip. “I--,”

Clint didn’t know if she was going to apologize or not, but he didn’t give her a chance. He caught her face in one of his hands. She stilled instantly. Under his thumb, her lips parted, shaking slightly, soft and warm. He touched her forehead with his, trying to calm his mind. This was Natasha. She could be playing a hundred different angles right now and he’d only be able to guess half of them. He didn’t think she’d intentionally play him but he wasn’t convinced she’d know the difference some of the time. As far as he knew, she had never had a partner outside of a job. The idea of being her first not on the job twisted his stomach and set his blood on fire.

            “Why now?” he asked hoarsely, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. She shuddered, her knee pressing into his hip, her back arching slightly.

            “I---,” she swallowed and opened her eyes, big and blue. The sky here, right next to Clint. “I want to.”

            “Nothing to do with feeling obligated to make me feel better, right?” They’re the wrong words for that moment but he doesn’t care because he has to ask them. He can’t…he whispered softly, “Natasha, I’m not doing anything to lose you. Tell me this isn’t going to lose you.”

            “You won’t lose me.” In her voice, he heard a promise.

            He kissed her slowly, taking his time. He knew every curve of Natasha except for a few, and these were some of them. He learned his way around her mouth, her tongue, the way her breath tasted after it hitched halfway out of her chest, the unsure way she reached for him, trying to pull him closer to her, making a small desperate sound escape from her mouth. He smiled against her lips then, kissed her neck, letting his teeth slide against the hollow of her throat. Her fingers gripped his shirt front, her breath bottoming out inside of her. She shifted, her fingers sliding underneath his shirt again, crawling over his abs, his chest, her palm flattening against him when he kissed her again, harder this time. He felt the way she arched against his hipbone at that. Of course she liked it a little harder. He couldn’t think of a reason why she wouldn’t.

            “Wait,” Natasha managed to say suddenly and Clint stopped immediately. She was almost panting, her hair loosed at some point from the pony tail. She didn’t pull away, though, to his relief. She sagged against him, and then shifted smoothly, straddling him with a leg on either side of him. He groaned despite himself and wrapped his hand around her cast. She whispered, fear in her voice, “Is this okay?”

            It was more than okay, though Clint felt light headed from blood flow heading south. He kissed her, carefully this time, and she hissed in frustration, rocking her hips against him, once, hard. He grinned and kissed her hard again, felt her melt against his mouth, her hips slide against his again, her thighs tightening against his sides. He slid a hand into her hair, and she kissed him, kissed his neck, kissed the side of his face, kissed his collarbone, sucked at a spot on his neck that pulled a sound from him he didn’t know he knew how to make anymore. Instinctually, his hand slid up her shirt, onto bare skin, over her ribs, over her abs that tightened hard beneath his hand, hard enough to trace the lines between the muscles. She gasped, letting go of his hand. His brain flashed him a warning sign and he began to pull his hand away, trying to respect any lines she drew.

            “Don’t you dare,” she growled, grabbing his hand and sliding it back under her shirt. Her eyes met his fiercely. There were a whole new set of Natasha signals and signs to learn, and here was one of them, bright and loud. Without kissing her in return, just keeping his eyes on her face, Clint slipped his hand higher, ran a light finger on the underside of bra. She trembled slightly. He helped her dress every single day, helped her _shower_ , and he had never moved around her like this. Never like this. His fingers danced over her skin, over her bra, then around her back, unclasping the bra expertly.

            Her eyes narrowed. “Do I want to know?”

            He grinned and kissed her. “No one. Not for years, Tasha. Only you.”

            “Why?” she asked, and then sat back on his thighs frowning at her arms. “I was going to try and pull my shirt off all seductively but I guess that’s not happening.”

            He almost told her he loved her, just for that, the simple ease at which she could have two conversations at once while straddling his lap. Clint pulled her shirt over her head, her bra coming with it. Natasha looked away from him, bit her lower lip, and then her eyes darted back toward him. He said quietly, “Why you or why did I wait for something that was never a sure thing?”

            She brushed her hair over her shoulder, and considered his question. “Both.”

            “Because you,” he said, kissing her collarbone, then kissing a scar on her shoulder where he had once put an arrow through her, kissing another scar from someone else long before Clint above her left breast. “are home to me.”

            She slid down closer to him, kissed him, her hair brushing his cheeks. She whispered back, “I didn’t believe in anything until I had you.”

            Clint said quietly, “Natasha.”

            She ducked her head away from him, looped her cast around his neck, and rocked forward enough that her breasts brushed against his mouth. Against the dull roar of his body’s instincts, he lifted his chin and said again, “Natasha.”

            She stopped and looked at him. He kissed her, gently, and softly and the way he wanted to kiss her every morning and every night and every time he passed her in the kitchen or the hallway. Tears ran down her cheek. He kissed them, tasting the salt.

            “When I was over there,” she whispered, her voice choking up, and he didn’t need to ask where there was, “All I could think about was how stupid I had been all these years, to deny myself you, to deny either of us this, just because I was afraid.”

            “Are you afraid now?” he asked her half hopeful, half curious.

            “No,” she whispered back bravely.

            He raised his eyebrows and she laughed a bit, kissing him lightly. “A little. What are we doing?”

            Clint didn’t know what to call it. He shrugged. “We’re learning each other, like we did before.”

            “It took us years before,” Natasha replied after a pause.

            “This won’t be any different. Just,” he hesitated and figured Natasha would forgive him if he were nonsensical, “more fun, and theoretically less death defying. And Natasha, when you say stop, no matter when, I’ll stop. And it’ll be okay.”

            The consequences of a partner who bought secrets with her body was the gratitude she shouldn’t have felt like she owed for those words. It was written all over her face, over her frustrated hands trying to tuck his shirt over his head, over the feeling of her bare body pressed against his. He kissed everywhere he could reach on her, and she reciprocated. He was harder than anything, and she was panting, grinding her hips against his. He slipped a hand between their jeans, and swore softly at the dampness against his fingers.

            “Could you come,” he rasped as she nipped his ear. He closed his eyes and pressed his palm against the crotch of her jeans. “Like this?”

            “Don’t know,” Natasha groaned back. “Never have.”

            Clint’s eyes opened in a flash. “What?”

            “Never have been able to come. Even on my own,” she repeats, nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal, like she wasn’t a thirty year old woman who had never had an orgasm in her life.

            Clint moved then, standing with her grasped in his arms, and laid her down beneath him. He had been avoiding this, the word _trigger_ halfway in the back of his mind, but she didn’t say stop and her eyes lit up, wild and keening for something she didn’t know she’d been missing. Clint lay down next to her, kissed her, and slid one hand between her thighs, against her warm, damp jeans. He thumbed the seam and pressed it against her. She gasped, biting back a scream, arching immediately into him, her head thrown back. She trembled underneath him. She was close, and she hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t doing this through her jeans, though the thought would be something for the future. Clint slid down her body and looked up at her from between her legs. She was wide-eyed.

            “Can I?” He asked her softly. She nodded, once, shyly, and lifted her hips, helping him as he unbuttoned them and tugged them down her legs, off completely, somewhere tossed on the floor with their shirts and her bra. He kissed the inside of her thigh, running his tongue along the tendon straining there. She whimpered, her fingers finding his hair. He smiled and kissed his way upward until he came to her cunt, nestled in dark red curls. He breathed her in, then kissed her very softly, tasting the glistening dampness already there. She bucked into his face, her knees tightening around him. He pressed them back firmly with a hand and kissed her again.

            “I, fuck, I want,” she whispered, breathlessly. “Please.”

            Clint kissed her again, parting her folds with his tongue, slipping his mouth along her as she cried out, arching into his face. He closed his eyes, brushing his lips over her swollen clit. Her thighs shook around him. He caressed her again with his mouth, slipped a tongue inside her, deep, and probing, once, and then brushed her clit with a forefinger. That was all it took before her body rose, pressed against him, and she came, her muscles shaking like earthquakes, rivulets of sweet musky liquid against his tongue, and nose, and lips. He rose, kissed her belly, and then kissed her. She moaned again at the taste of herself on his lips.

            He grinned and kissed her. “Alright?”

            Natasha closed her eyes briefly, and Clint’s heart almost stopped until she opened them, bright and fierce. “So that’s what the fuss is about.”

            He laughed. “Always wondered?”

            “Not even. Assumed,” she said, kissing his jaw, “I was broken.”

            His heart did stop this time. He sat up, slipping his arms around her to pull her upright against him. He brushed her hair back and kissed her, letting his teeth catch her top lip. She smiled at that. He said quietly, “You are not broken, Natasha Romanov.”

            She held her breath and pressed her casted hand and her splinted again against his chest. “I am not broken.”

            “You are not broken,” he repeated. “Nothing about you is broken.”

            She was quiet for a long moment, just running her hands over the scars on his chest and side, some from before he came to SHIELD, some from before his befores, from a time they didn’t talk about any more than they talked about her childhood. She nodded, slowly, and then took another deep breath. She brushed her knuckles against the crotch of his jeans. He winced.

            “We should take care of that,” she said, but her voice was different.

            Clint caught her hand. “Only if you actually want to, Natasha. Trust me, I can handle it.”

            “ _Hand_ le it?” she teased, a spark of her old self coming back through. “Clint, I’m alright. I want to. I want _you_.”

            So they fell back to bed, her casts rough against him, and she frustrated gave up on helping him out of his jeans. She called him Boy Scout when he found a condom in his bedside table, and she watched him roll it on with such a gaze that Clint knew it wasn’t going to take long. He slid into her, closed his eyes, and almost couldn’t move for a moment. The warmth, the tightness, the smell of her, the sound of her breathing. It was too much. Too much all at once, and he knew how she must have felt when he went down on her. He slipped an arm under her lower back, pulling her flush against his stomach, and kissed her hard, tilting his hips and rocking forward into her once. She gasped into the kiss and kissed back harder, her arms tight around him. It didn’t take long. He swore softly as he came, sinking deep into her and onto her, holding himself up by his forearms. Natasha ran an open mouthed kiss along his entire jaw. He closed his eyes.

            “Alright?” she asked him, gently.

            He kissed her roughly and slid out of her, lay next to her and running his hands down her sides. “Alright.”

            Her eyes softened and she sighed softly. “This is the part I’m not good at.”

            He blinked. “What part?”

            “The after,” she said simply. She tried to prop herself up on an elbow and winced, laying back down. He pushed a damp curl off her cheek. She said, “This is the part where I leave or kill them.”

            “Well, I’d be a happy man if you stayed,” he said, not even fazed. He knew what her job was. He knew what she did. Natasha rested a hand on his chest and closed her eyes.

            “Hungry,” she muttered.

            Clint couldn’t help grinning. It was quintessentially Natasha to go from sleepy to hungry, from romantic to demanding, in the space of a few heartbeats. He had to get up anyway and clean himself up. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and rolled out of bed, heading for the bathroom. “What do you want?”

            “Anything,” she said, and he felt her eyes on his back. “Just hungry. Pepper and I didn’t grab dinner.”

            “Where’d you go?” he asked, taking off the condom and tossing it carefully in the trash. He found pajama bottoms in the drawers and a tshirt on the floor. He pulled them on as Natasha told him about going to the mall, getting their make-up done, and buying dresses for the Stark Industries fundraiser. Clint made a face at her. He hated the fundraiser. He looked at her, mussed up and naked in his bed, and shook his head.

            “What?” she asked, anxiety leaping into her voice.

            “Nothing,” he replied, and then corrected himself. “You’re beautiful, especially right now.”

            She smiled, shy and delighted by the comment. He wanted to climb back into bed with her. He headed for the door. “Anything?”

            “Anything.”

            Bruce was in the kitchen, reading a book and eating a bowl of cereal. Clint glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. He didn’t say anything to his teammate as he reheated lo mein he found in the fridge and put it into two bowls. It didn’t matter how romantic Natasha may be feeling. She was still positively aggressive if anyone tried to share her food. He had to go digging in the dishwasher for two forks.

            “Hungry?” asked Bruce, eyeing the two bowls.

            “Natasha,” explained Clint. He found two forks and stabbed one in each bowl.

            “And how are you two doing?” Bruce continued, in a tone surprisingly and too indifferently casual.

            Clint slowed his steps and narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Why?”

            “You have lipstick,” Bruce said, pointing with his spoon. “On your face. And your neck. And I think that’s Natasha’s tshirt, not yours.”

            Clint stared down at himself, at the pale blue tshirt that did, now that he thought about it, fit a little tight. He opened and shut his mouth, and then looked up at his teammate. “Yeah.”

            Bruce’s eyes disappeared into his face when he smiled. “Happy?”

            Clint relaxed, just a fraction. “Yes.”

            “Good. Have a good night.” And just like that, the scientist went back to his cereal and his book.

            Clint shook his head and headed back up to the room. _Right,_ he thought. _The team. We’re going to have to deal with the team_. But for now, he just wanted to get back to Natasha.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I object to the word cunt used as a slur, but not as a part of the body for a host of reasons. I hope the difference came through here.
> 
> *It's been awhile since I've written something like this...thanks for bearing with me! One chapter to go!


	16. Stay Stay Stay

            Emily couldn’t find her keys, or her cellphone, or her credit card, and felt like the biggest disaster ever when someone knocked at the door. She rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to groan, loudly, because the walls were thin here and it was probably someone who didn’t deserve the wrath of her very discombulated day. She peered out the peekhole and raised her eyebrows at the sight of Natasha standing there, rocking on her toes, holding two cups from Starbucks. Emily unlocked the door and pulled it open.

            “Hi,” she said warily. “I thought I was meeting you and Dad at the stadium. In like, three hours.”

            “Thought I’d come by here first,” Natasha said without offering a reason. She checked the cups and thrust one out toward Emily. “Vanilla latte right?”

            Emily accepted the drink and sighed, “Come on in. I’m a disaster today.”

            “Welcome to my life,” said Natasha, stepping into the apartment. She looked around but absentmindedly said, “I really wish I had experienced the American university thing.”

            Emily looked around her apartment that she shared with four other girls. There were books everywhere, a box of cold pizza on the coffee table, Gilmore Girl reruns on TV. She was the only girl awake yet. She was the only one who hadn’t been out late partying last night. Most of the mess was her fault.

She shrugged and said, “I mean, it’s not bad.” She sipped the latte and sighed with relief. “Oh god, Natasha, this is perfect.”

Natasha brightened immediately and Emily realized it was the first time they had hung out, just the two of them, since both of them came back. Her eyes ran down Natasha’s arms. She still had a cast on one arm, but it looked new, and her other arm was in a flexible black splint. And she was out on her own so Clint must not be too worried about her ability to defend herself in any situation. Emily blinked when Natasha turned around and asked if she was ready to go.

“I don’t know where any of my stuff is, but yeah, sure I’ll walk there. It’s a nice walk, just far.” It was a not so subtle way of asking if Natasha was up for it.

Natasha saw straight through it. She tilted her head slightly, her red hair falling to one side of her head. “I broke my arms, not my legs.”

“Someone else broke your arms,” Emily corrected quietly. Natasha said nothing as Emily moved around her apartment, eventually finding all of her missing items. She picked up her latte again and they slipped out of the apartment before any of Emily’s roommates came out and asked questions about the redhead Russian.

“Is Jem meeting us there?” asked Natasha in the elevator. She frowned at the camera in the corner above the control panel. Emily had never noticed before she followed Natasha’s gaze.

“Yeah,” Emily replied shyly.

 In the few weeks since Jem returned home and her dad had set them up together at the Starbucks, they had been spending more and more time together. Jem had been apologetic and at some level, Emily couldn’t blame him for not understanding the risk and problems he caused: she had proven she hadn’t taken the secrecy seriously either. They were in the process of figuring each other out and the process was fun, and new. She had forgotten how much she missed him and missed someone not in the Avengers who was her own age. He had spent the night for the first time in awhile the other day and when she woke, as she always did, with nightmares, he hadn’t been scared off. He had stayed. As her roommate Amy said, give the boy some credit.

Natasha gave her a sly smile. “He’s a good kid. Everyone makes mistakes. Your dad and I know that better than most.”

The elevator doors opened and they walked out and toward the park. They were meeting Clint and Jem at the ballpark to see a baseball game. The summer evening was warm, without being hot, and Emily loved seeing everyone out throwing frisbees and playing with their dogs. Natasha too seemed relaxed and happy.

“Has Bruce asked Darcy out yet?” asked Emily, suddenly thinking that it had been a week since she last talked to Darcy.

Natasha scowled. “No and it’s beginning to get painful to watch. They’re both dancing around it. When her back’s turned, he’s all moon faced and visa versa. It’s incredibly frustrating. People must have felt like this with your dad and I.”

Natasha froze at the same time that Emily registered the statement. Emily stopped dead in her tracks and narrowed her eyes at Natasha. “Felt. That’s past tense. They wouldn’t think that anymore?”

The other woman looked pale. She sipped her coffee anxiously. “Ah. He’s going to kill me. That’s not how that was supposed to slip out.”

“You two are _finally_ together? Like together together? Sleeping together?” Emily could barely contain her glee as she demanded questions.

Natasha flushed and that was all the confirmation Emily needed. She squealed with delight and carefully threw her arms around the woman she had always thought would be the only person her dad could ever be with. She closed her eyes, holding Natasha tight, until Natasha cautiously wrapped her still injured arms back around Emily.

When they finally parted, Natasha looked frightened and very young to Emily. “You aren’t mad?”

“Natasha, why would I be mad?” Emily laughed and shook her head. “God, I’ve been asking him for years why that wasn’t happening.”

“Me. It wasn’t happening because of me. I’m,” Natasha paused and shrugged, “complicated.”

“Are you happy?” Emily asked curiously, watching Natasha carefully. Natasha was so guarded around Emily, even after all these years.

But then the older woman gave Emily a small shy and genuine smile. “Yes. Very. I know he’s your dad so I’ll spare you the details about our life,” and she laughed when Emily made a face at that, “but I am happy. And I hope he is.”

“Oh god, I’m so happy for you guys. This is fantastic,” Emily gripped her cup tightly, trying not to scare Natasha off with the grinning. “That’s awesome. Is that why you’re here to walk me over?”

“Partially,” admitted Natasha as they started to walk again. “I wanted to tell you on my own terms, though maybe not like that. It’s also been awhile since I’ve seen you just one on one, and I missed you.”

Emily warmed at the compliment and they wandered the path of the park, chatting about Emily’s classes, Natasha getting back to work, trying to get Clint to go to the Stark fundraiser, Jem’s business internship that summer, and how they could get Bruce and Darcy finally out on a date. Toward the end of the walk, they fell silent but it was a comfortable silent. Natasha shivered in her thin t-shirt and they stopped to buy her a Yankees sweatshirt, just to drive Clint mad. It was, of course, an obnoxious shade of red that clashed with her hair. Even the store owner winced when Natasha pulled it over her head. They agreed though it was great for looking terrible. Emily bought a foam finger for Jem and they walked a few more blocks. They were still early so they sat down on a bench by the ballpark, looking out over the river.

“Emily, there was another reason I wanted to see you,” Natasha said carefully. “We need to talk about what happened.”

Emily’s stomach tied itself in a cold wet knot. “I don’t think so.”

Natasha’s voice was gentle, and Natasha was never gentle. “We do need to talk about it. I think you’re avoiding me because you think I am angry he chose you over me.”

Guilt chilled her skin everywhere the sun previously warmed it. She wanted to run and leap into the river, let herself be carried away by the current, anything but to sit here, listening to this. Though her mind thought this, her body remained grounded and she couldn’t will herself to run away. She swallowed hard, concentrating on shredding the sleeve of her now cold latte into tiny pieces.

“I am not angry, Emily. It’s what I would have done if someone had told me to choose between you and him. I would have chosen you too. This is what we do, Emily. We protect the people who need protecting and in that moment, it was you. You’re his daughter. Of course he’s going to choose you. I’d never forgive him if he hadn’t. And,” Emily heard Natasha take a rattling breath, “it isn’t the first time. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

Emily knew exactly what she was talking about. One of the times when Clint and Natasha had taken their leave to spend time with Emily in Nebraska where she grew up, Natasha had arrived distracted and a little dark around the eyes. She had immediately gone upstairs to fall asleep and Clint and Emily had hung out downstairs, cooked together, and watched American Idol while Emily’s maternal grandmother, who raised her, went out with her friends.

Sometime during the voting of American Idol, there came a blood curdling scream from upstairs. Clint had vaulted over the couch in a fluid motion, bounding up the stairs too at a time, completely silent. Emily remembered that way her heart pounded and the way her hands were clammy. She remembered finding the gun her grandmother kept in the front hall table and taking it out, just in case her dad needed it. When she got to the top of the stairs, she saw her dad holding Natasha to the ground, pinning her arms against herself with his arm muscles buldging. There was blood all over the carpet and a knife in Natasha’s hand as she writhed, sobbing, trying to get loose.

Clint spoke to Natasha in a language Emily didn’t know. She thought maybe it was Russian. He kept saying the same firm phrase over and over again. Then suddenly, he looked up at her, his face red and his eyes gray, and said, “Emily, get in the car and lock the doors. Don’t come out until I come get you.”

She hadn’t known then that Natasha had been taken again by the Red Room, deprogrammed again by SHIELD and Clint, and was having a psychotic episode. Clint called for backup and had her hospitalized. Emily overheard the conversation in the driveway where she begged him not to send her to the hospital, that she could stay with him.

He had said clearly, and angrily, “You think I’m going to let you stay here? It’s one thing if it’s just me, Natasha, but I have to think about Emily and her safety.”

Natasha had nodded, swallowed, and gotten in the black car. Only then did Clint come and take Emily into the house from the car.

Emily looked at Natasha now and said quietly, “I don’t think you’d ever hurt me, Natasha. Not then, not now.”

Natasha shrugged. “It was a good call by him. And a hard call for him. Emily, he’s going to choose you. Every time. And I will never ever resent you for that, because it’s the right move.”

“I don’t know that he didn’t regret his choice though,” Emily said softly after a few more heartbeats. “You didn’t see him before you came back from the dead basically. He was…god, it was like he wasn’t even there.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Natasha slipped her hands inside of her sweatshirt and shrugged. “But to him, there wasn’t a choice. You can’t regret something that didn’t exist.”

Emily hesitated and leaned her head on Natasha’s shoulder, like she used to do when she was younger. Natasha immediately leaned her head back on Emily’s. Emily waved the foam hand. “How can you not hate me for that?”

“Because there are worse things in the world than loving a man who loves his daughter more than life itself.”

Emily smiled and said, “You guys getting married?”

Natasha snorted. “You’re jumping the gun, sweetheart. Give us some time. It’s only been a few weeks.”

“It’s been twelve years,” argued Emily. _“Twelve years_. Don’t think that doesn’t count.”

“It totally doesn’t.”

“It does too.”

“Aw, look, my girls having a lovely conversation,” said a cheerful and familiar voice.

Natasha and Emily twisted to see Clint approaching, holding the hand of a little girl with dark curls pulled back into a ponytail. Jem was with them too. Emily couldn’t stop the grin that burst forth on her face and she scrambled up, hurrying to greet her boyfriend—oh god, she just totally called him her boyfriend again—with a kiss. Jem’s gaze was warm and happy. He slipped an arm around her waist.

“Ran into your dad at parking lot.” He kissed her cheek.

Emily fluffed his dark hair. “You got a hair cut.”

“Like it?” he looked doubtful as he tried to pat it smooth again. “I don’t know.”

“It’s hair. It’ll grow.” Emily gave him a patient smile and then turned to Clint. “Hey, Dad. Who’s this?”

“This is Lana. She’s one of the,” Clint’s eyes shifted to Jem, and back to Emily. “The girls. Remember her? We gave her candy.”

“Oh man,” whispered Emily, letting go of Jem and reaching forward with her hand. The little girl flinched and gripped Clint’s hand hard. Emily said, “How do you say “My name is” in Russian?”

“Minya zavoot,” said Natasha quietly, standing back with her hands in her back pockets. “She won’t reply though. She hasn’t talked since we treated her.”

Emily shot her dad and Natasha a look. “What happened?”

“I think she had a reaction to the medicine,” Clint said as the kid leaned into him, her round face emotionless and her eyes distant. He looked at Natasha. “Nat thinks that she was like this before they programmed her. This is what deprogramming did. Jem, you didn’t hear anything said.”

Emily swallowed hard. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“Nothing. She’s here to see a ballgame. Right, Lana?” asked Clint cheerfully. The kid looked up and smiled at him, but remained silent. Clint looked at Emily who was busy giving Natasha a significant look, and then Clint’s jaw dropped open. “You told her, Tash?”

“It slipped out!” Natasha protested, lifting her shoulders.

Emily rolled her eyes, “It did. Relax, Dad. It’s about time.”

Clint gave her a suspicious look, then abruptly relaxed. “Ah, well, good. Then I can do this.”

He stepped closer to Natasha in two long strides, pulling Lana along with him. Slipping a hand into Natasha’s hair, he kissed her hard once, and then gentler a second time. Natasha practically melted into Clint. Clint exhaled, and then opened his eyes. “Hi. How was your flight?”

“Flight?” echoed Emily.

“Long,” admitted Natasha to Clint. She looked at Emily. “I had to fly out yesterday morning to Seattle to ID a body. I flew back today. A quickie.”

Clint snorted and took Natasha’s splinted hand in his, trading Lana to the other hand. “Kind of. That’s not really what a quickie is but we can pretend. Ah, wait, Jem, Natasha. Natasha, Jem.”

“You’re the Black Widow,” Jem blurted out, his mouth hanging open. Emily rolled her eyes at him now and shook her head at the ground. She could never compete as long as Natasha was standing around, even if Natasha was holding her dad’s hand.

“Only if you’re about to die,” Natasha replied calmly. “Should we go in? I want to get seats before I have to climb over people’s legs.”

“Before someone feels you up,” Clint corrects her.

“Same thing,” muttered Natasha as they started to walk ahead of Jem and Emily.

“You promised not to start trouble. And good lord, woman, what are you wearing?”

“You like it? I bought it for you. I intend on wearing it all the time.”

“I did not realize your hatred for me ran that deep.”

“It’s a bottomless well. I thought it went with my hair too.”

“Makes your hair look like a dye job.”

“You take that back.”

“Take the sweatshirt off.”

“Later. That’s later.”

“I can do later,” Clint agreed after a pause.

Emily didn’t want to think about her dad and what laters meant between him and Natasha, but their banter was so deeply familiar and comfortable that it unknotted something in her chest. Then Jem slipped his hand into hers and laced their fingers together. He kissed her temple and said softly, “I was wrong. You’re still the hottest person around, even standing next to the Black Widow.”

Emily grinned. She shouldn’t need or want the validation, but it was such a long ago conversation and he remembered, and he was being kind when she was anxious. She stood on her toes and kissed him with clear intent. She whispered, “Even when I worked next to Captain America, the only man I wanted to see was you.”

Jem pulled her against him, his voice rough. “Can I walk you home after the game?”

“Only if you stay.”

“I think I can manage that.”

They were both smiling as they finally caught up with Natasha, Clint, and the little silent girl staring in awe at the baseball field.

 

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied. There's going to be an epilogue. But, squee? I hope you're squeeing with me.


	17. Home is a Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Home is a fire  
> Burning reminder  
> Of where we belong." -- Death Cab for Cutie, Home is a Fire

_Two years later_

            Clint sat on the playground bench, watching the small dark-haired girl attempt to climb the slide for the fifth time in a row. Like Natasha, Lana didn’t do anything the easy way. She looked at the playground and chose only the hard ways to navigate it. Still, it was her favorite place in the world and it was easy enough to bring her here and let her play while he talked Tony Stark down from a metaphorical cliff. At that moment, Stark was pacing circles around the bench, talking animatedly about every single bad decision he had made in his life since childhood. The only one Clint could definitely get a bead on was that Stark probably needed a therapist.

            “Tony,” interrupted Clint, pushing his sunglasses up his face. “Stop.”

            “You don’t realize how unprepared I am for fatherhood. And this was planned. I don’t understand how I planned something of this caliber. I am very good at planning.”

            “No, you’re not. You’re terrible at thinking about consequences. That’s what makes you a brilliant inventor. You’re very good at accepting responsibility on the tail end of projects though,” Clint corrected him calmly, “and you’re going to be fine. Trust me.”

            Stark flopped onto the bench and said, “Why?”

            “Because you’re talking to a guy who knocked up a one-night stand,” Clint said quietly, looking sideways at him for an instant.

            Stark grunted and leaned forward, watching Lana climb around the playground now that she succeeded in getting ot the top of the slide. “How much did it suck?”

            Clint smiled a bit. “It was rough, but I learned to love it. Kids are pretty lovable.”

            “You have that gene or something, though. You have Emily, and then you took Natasha under your wing when she was pretty much smashed up to pieces, and then,” Stark gestured to the kid swinging across the monkey bars. “Lana.”

            “Mmmhm,” Clint made an agreeing noise and said quietly, “You always think you’re going to be terrible at it, Tony. The best parents always think they’re going to fuck something up. You’re going to make mistakes and some of them are going to be hard to fix and it’s always going to be there in your head. But kids are forgiving and kids are way more flexible than adults. It’s going to be okay.”

            Stark played with his sunglasses. “Pepper gave me a reading list.”

            Clint laughed. “Good. She knows you well. Research the shit out of parenthood. Make a list of different parenting techniques and all of their do’s and don’ts lists. But in the end, the type of parent you are is just the parent you choose to be.”

            For a long time, they just sit there, two guys on a bench, watching a kid play on the playground. A woman walking by told her girlfriend that she thought it was so nice that two gay men brought their kids to the playground and “you just didn’t used to see that in this neighborhood”. Both Stark and Clint laughed at that, because both knew better and they didn’t mind. Clint watched Lana trot back across the mulch toward him. She got closer and made the sign for water. He pulled her water bottle out of their backpack and handed it to her. She stood next to him, her small hand on his knee, drinking, and then handed it back to him.

            He raised his eyebrow at her, amused. “You can put it away. You know how to do that.”

            She made a dramatic sigh and checked the lid to make sure it was tight before sliding it back into the backpack. She signed at him, _more play?_

He checked his watch. “Ten minutes, okay? Then we have to go meet Natasha at home.”

She grinned and raced back to the swings. There was another family on the playground now and Lana got into a swinging match with him, swinging as high as she could, her feet pumping into the air. A year ago, even, she would have been too scared to be on the playground with any other kids. Now, when the little boy talked to her, she signed at him, even though he didn’t understand. Clint was bursting with pride.

“She’s come a long way,” Stark noted, picking up on Clint’s thoughts. “She still won’t look at me though.”

“She doesn’t even look at Jem and she sees him almost every day,” admitted Clint. “We have a long way to go in that realm. She sets a place at the table for him now, though. She used to deliberately leave him out of the place setting.”

The man next to Clint snorted and said, “That sounds like something Natasha would have done too.”

Clint laughed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So, Barton, enjoying retirement? We don’t even see you around the Tower anymore unless Natasha’s there.” Stark sat back on the bench, finally relaxing.

“I thought I’d hate it,” Clint said quietly. “Being bored all the time. But she,” he gestured to Lana, “keeps me busy enough. We’re hoping to get her into school next year but I’m homeschooling her for now. And I’m still consulting for SHIELD. I do their marksmen testing four times a year out in Hawaii.”

“That must be nice.”

“I love it. Natasha hates it.”

“Too warm?”

“Yep.”

Stark shook his head and then jutted his chin at Lana. “You have custody of her yet?”

“Lana? Finalizing next week with SHIELD and Uncle Sam.”

Stark’s smile was genuine and small, rare like Natasha’s smiles had been once. “That’s really great, Clint. I’m glad for you both. She’s a lucky kid.”

Lucky didn’t cover half of it. It had been a two year battle. Clint had been part of the project to deprogram and retrain the twelve survivors of the Red Rom 2.0 that Natasha had finally and successfully killed, almost at the cost of everyone’s lives. The three oldest girls had chosen to stay on with SHIELD. None of them approached Natasha’s level and were currently training as regular SHIELD operatives under Coulson’s command. The nine youngest girls were deprogrammed and placed into foster care with various US government and SHIELD employees to intergrate them into normal society.

When Lana stopped speaking after being deprogrammed, she became the hardest to place. She had violent outbursts, or shut down and became comatose, nonresponsive even to pain stimuli. Clint had thought, when he went home one night to the Avengers Tower to propose that they foster Lana, that Natasha would refuse. In his head, he had catalogued the excuses she’d have: that they had only been together as a couple, not just partners, for six months; that they were ill prepared to take a child; that she did not want a child in her life. Instead, Natasha had kissed him and said yes, that she wanted Lana to come home to them, but only if they got their own place.

_“I’m not,” she told him firmly, “raising a child in the Avengers Tower. That’s asking for trouble, especially with a girl who was at the very least exposed to the Red Room conditioning.”_

So they bought a house in Brooklyn and moved out there, bringing home Lana the following week. It hadn’t been a cake walk, but it had been one of the best decisions Clint had made in his life. And Natasha had taken much better to raising a kid than anyone expected. Her patience had no bounds, and she knew how to read Lana better than most people.

“How’s Emily? She usually stops by to see Darcy every week but I haven’t seen her around.” Stark asked out of the blue, interrupting Clint’s thoughts.

“She and Jem are in Europe together,” Clint sighed. “It’s killing me, so don’t remind me. She refused the idea of a bodyguard.”

“You can’t keep her in a bubble,” Stark replied gently. “She has to go sometime. She knows the risk now. She’s checking in regularly, yes?”

“Yes,” grumbled Clint.

“I saw the wedding announcement. Emily Neal Barton,” Stark said slyly, and then cleared his throat. “When’d she change her last name?”

“Last summer,” Clint said after a pause. He swallowed hard. “Tony, that’s one of those moments when you realize you didn’t fuck up too bad as a parent. When they want your last name after a lifetime without it.”

“I should hope a kid wants my last name. Potts is a terrible last name. I mean, Peter Potts. Petra Potts.”

Clint gave a sideways glare. “You’re not honestly thinking about the name Petra are you?”

“I was. Pepper nicked it.”

“Skip the alliteration. Pepper understands,” Clint promised him. He called out to Lana who was pushing the other kid, “Lana! Rules.”

Lana crossed her arms but stopped pushing the other kid around the playground. The other mom gave him a grateful look.

“I think naming this child might get me divorced,” Tony told him ruefully. “Who named Emily?”

“Her mother. Right before she checked out of Emily’s life.”

“It fits her though.”

Clint smiled a bit. “Yeah it does. But it doesn’t matter, Tony. Kids will find nicknames that work for them if their name doesn’t fit. I’m not really a Clinton.”

“But you’re a Clint,” Tony agreed. “And Natasha is not a Natalia.”

“She was. But now she’s not. Names are easy. Focus on everything else. You just want a happy, healthy kid. And even if you don’t have a happy and healthy kid,” Clint said gently, gesturing to Lana, “you’ll do okay by them. You will. Because you’re what they have and it has to be enough.”

Clint’s phone dinged and he checked it quickly.

Natasha: home. What do you and L want for dinner?  
            Clint: We’re at the park, we’ll head home soon. There’s stew in the slow cooker  
            Natasha: ok. See you soon.

It should bother him, on some level, how domestic it all felt. Dinner together with a kid and the woman he loved and everything. But mostly it felt comfortable. It felt like the way he always thought life should be and never thought he’d get, never thought he’d deserved. He shut off his phone and dumped it in the backpack.

“Time to head home. You can come hang out with us anytime you know.” He stood up and called, “Lana!”

Lana stuck out her tongue at him. He rolled his eyes and said in Russian, “Svetlana Romanova, if you don’t come here this instant…”

She threw her arms in the air dramatically and stomped back over toward them. Stark laughed and said quietly, “Thanks. I appreciate it. The next six months are going to be rough.”

“Not for you. For Pepper. After that, then it’s tough for you.” Clint fluffed Lana’s hair when she reached him. “Hey kiddo. How does chicken stew sound?”

She signed at him, _no chicken._

“Right,” sighed Clint. He smiled at Stark. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

“Thanks. Come by the tower sometime. Bring this pipsqueak. Maybe I’ll build her a robot,” Stark winked.

And just for a moment, Lana’s eyes flickered up to him and then away. She gripped Clint’s hand tightly. Clint waved goodbye to Stark and he and Lana headed home. _Home._ In three days, Emily and Jem would be home to their apartment down the street. In four days, Natasha was heading out on a mission. They were in constant flux, but it was the most stable Clint had felt in his entire life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin :)


End file.
